Today the Prop 8 trial court released its ruling. The court held that Proposition 8 is unconstitutional, violating both the Equal Protection and the Due Process clauses of the fourteenth amendment of the United States Constitution. What is crazy to me is that the Due Process clause argument and analysis of the court ruling mirrors my personal logic in my previous blog post. I'm not trying to make some grand statement about my intelligence, but I will admit that it is a very validating moment to hear your personal conclusions of law thrown back at you from federal court rulings while you are in law school. If you are interested:
The Opinion
It is epic long, but with a handy-dandy index and very helpful headings, you can skip to some of really good stuff. To see where the money is really made, start reading around page 109 of the document or 111 of the .pdf file.
It is a good day for civil rights, people. God bless all of you, readers, and God bless America.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Obama doesn't have that problem...obviously.
A couple things have converged in recent history to bring me to this post. Most recently I discovered that today marks Lisa Simpson's wedding day. Pretty exciting, huh? Yes, I think so, also. Furthermore, I have found myself discussing marriage a lot with friends, so this is the gay marriage post. Turn back if you don't care to hear my opinion of gay marriage, as a repentant-gay Catholic.
Still here? Alright, you asked for it. Here's how it all begins: I am Catholic. I am gay. I struggle with that dichotomy all the time. It was through a lot of prayer that I came to the realization that I was made the way that I am and that I have no choice but to be homosexual. I am called to be the love of somebody's life. I am called to be a parent - I want one boy and one girl. But, as a man of faith, I believe that marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman. The doctrine of marriage has evolved from a Judeo-Christian background and is now backed by the power of law. So I will never be the person to rail against religion for not letting me marry the man of my dreams in a church.
Here's where it gets tricky. As a man studying the law, I have learned that a marriage is a legal union between two people (a man and a woman in most states) that classifies their relationship for purposes of insurance, survivorship rights, spousal immunity, etc. Legally, everyone has the right to marry whomever they please, so long as they are of opposing sexes (with certain exceptions) and they are consenting adults.
Ready for the paradox? I am against gay marriage but I am pro-gay marriage. As a gay man I am limited, only, by the vocable "marriage." In this post, alone, I have already given two definitions of the same word. Some people spend months planning huge wedding in grand cathedrals. Some just go to the court house and make it official. Then there are countless marriages in-between.
Separate-but-equal is a term used to describe the state of the country when it came to different races. There were white drinking fountains and black drinking fountains, white seats on buses and black seats on buses. The struggles of minorities in the history of our country have been long and hard, and to a certain extent they continue today. There remains bigotry in hiring processes, a supposed need for affirmative action in scholarship, and racial profiling under the umbrella of 'public safety'. I don't want to draw too large a comparison between the vast struggles of African Americans in the mid-1900s and what is happening to the gay community now, but there is an analogy there that I am willing to illustrate. Many people, hoping to find a way out of a very large can of worms, advocate for "domestic partnership." They tell you that being a domestic partner is sufficiently similar to marriage, legally. You get partnership rights, insurance benefits, etc. But there is one huge problem: you aren't married.
Domestic partnerships are our own brand of separate-but-equal. Sure, the black drinking fountain still had water in it, but it wasn't equal. Sure, the back of the bus got you there as fast as the front of the bus (barring negligible travel times, for you anal-retentive physicist readers), but it wasn't equal. Equality is something we all strive for and something that the United States has prided itself on trying to provide for all her citizens. There is a fundamental problem with calling a purely legal union between people of the same sex a 'domestic partnership' but calling a purely legal union between a man and a woman a 'marriage.'
So, like I said, I am limited by the word "marriage." I don't have the right to get married in a church and I am not seeking that right. But I absolutely should have the right to the same marriage at a court house that anybody else does with the person that I love, with whom I choose to spend the rest of my life. If I could call the legal relationship anything but a marriage, I would, since the word is too easily twisted to mean any of its various definitions. It is hard to think of other words that describe separate things that are so facially similar yet fundamentally different. Whether two [heterosexual] people that are legally married care about the religious implications of their union or not, their relationship is a marriage.
They are married.
Nobody would call a man and a woman eloping at the courthouse a 'domestic partnership' so why should that be what I settle for? My civil right to marry can and should be divorced (no pun intended) from the religious doctrine of marriage. As far as I am concerned, I deserve the right to be married to the person that I choose. I don't entertain the religious aspects of marriage when I think about my rights. Not everyone can get married in a church anyway. I'm not reinventing the wheel here, but next time somebody asks you for your stance on gay 'marriage', think about the fact that a marriage isn't so easily defined. If I am to settle for a domestic partnership, then that phrase ought to describe any legal union between people, heterosexual or not, that isn't established under the auspices of a relationship with God.
Legally, I want to marry the man of my dreams (or at least the man I choose), anything less and I will remain a second-class citizen, yearning for my own pursuit of happiness, which is a fundamental right, I might add.
Still here? Alright, you asked for it. Here's how it all begins: I am Catholic. I am gay. I struggle with that dichotomy all the time. It was through a lot of prayer that I came to the realization that I was made the way that I am and that I have no choice but to be homosexual. I am called to be the love of somebody's life. I am called to be a parent - I want one boy and one girl. But, as a man of faith, I believe that marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman. The doctrine of marriage has evolved from a Judeo-Christian background and is now backed by the power of law. So I will never be the person to rail against religion for not letting me marry the man of my dreams in a church.
Here's where it gets tricky. As a man studying the law, I have learned that a marriage is a legal union between two people (a man and a woman in most states) that classifies their relationship for purposes of insurance, survivorship rights, spousal immunity, etc. Legally, everyone has the right to marry whomever they please, so long as they are of opposing sexes (with certain exceptions) and they are consenting adults.
Ready for the paradox? I am against gay marriage but I am pro-gay marriage. As a gay man I am limited, only, by the vocable "marriage." In this post, alone, I have already given two definitions of the same word. Some people spend months planning huge wedding in grand cathedrals. Some just go to the court house and make it official. Then there are countless marriages in-between.
Separate-but-equal is a term used to describe the state of the country when it came to different races. There were white drinking fountains and black drinking fountains, white seats on buses and black seats on buses. The struggles of minorities in the history of our country have been long and hard, and to a certain extent they continue today. There remains bigotry in hiring processes, a supposed need for affirmative action in scholarship, and racial profiling under the umbrella of 'public safety'. I don't want to draw too large a comparison between the vast struggles of African Americans in the mid-1900s and what is happening to the gay community now, but there is an analogy there that I am willing to illustrate. Many people, hoping to find a way out of a very large can of worms, advocate for "domestic partnership." They tell you that being a domestic partner is sufficiently similar to marriage, legally. You get partnership rights, insurance benefits, etc. But there is one huge problem: you aren't married.
Domestic partnerships are our own brand of separate-but-equal. Sure, the black drinking fountain still had water in it, but it wasn't equal. Sure, the back of the bus got you there as fast as the front of the bus (barring negligible travel times, for you anal-retentive physicist readers), but it wasn't equal. Equality is something we all strive for and something that the United States has prided itself on trying to provide for all her citizens. There is a fundamental problem with calling a purely legal union between people of the same sex a 'domestic partnership' but calling a purely legal union between a man and a woman a 'marriage.'
So, like I said, I am limited by the word "marriage." I don't have the right to get married in a church and I am not seeking that right. But I absolutely should have the right to the same marriage at a court house that anybody else does with the person that I love, with whom I choose to spend the rest of my life. If I could call the legal relationship anything but a marriage, I would, since the word is too easily twisted to mean any of its various definitions. It is hard to think of other words that describe separate things that are so facially similar yet fundamentally different. Whether two [heterosexual] people that are legally married care about the religious implications of their union or not, their relationship is a marriage.
They are married.
Nobody would call a man and a woman eloping at the courthouse a 'domestic partnership' so why should that be what I settle for? My civil right to marry can and should be divorced (no pun intended) from the religious doctrine of marriage. As far as I am concerned, I deserve the right to be married to the person that I choose. I don't entertain the religious aspects of marriage when I think about my rights. Not everyone can get married in a church anyway. I'm not reinventing the wheel here, but next time somebody asks you for your stance on gay 'marriage', think about the fact that a marriage isn't so easily defined. If I am to settle for a domestic partnership, then that phrase ought to describe any legal union between people, heterosexual or not, that isn't established under the auspices of a relationship with God.
Legally, I want to marry the man of my dreams (or at least the man I choose), anything less and I will remain a second-class citizen, yearning for my own pursuit of happiness, which is a fundamental right, I might add.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Look at your life, look at your choices
Approve - verb
1. to speak or think favorably of; pronounce or consider agreeable or good; judge favorably: to approve the policies of the administration.
2. to consent or agree to: Father approved our plan to visit Chicago.
3. to confirm or sanction formally; ratify: The Senate promptly approved the bill.
Approval - noun
1. the act of approving; approbation.
2. formal permission or sanction.
When reduced to pure definitions, "approval" is just another tree in a forest of words. However, if you are a sentient human being, and you are not incarcerated for crimes against humanity, you know as well as I do that 'approval' is a red wood among saplings, to carry the analogy further.
I seek approval from many sources: my parents, my friends, my superiors, my subordinates; when I list the sources, it exhausts me. I want my parents to approve of my choices in law school. I want them to approve of my choices in men. I want their approval of my friends. Why do I care what they think, anyway? Shouldn't I just do what makes me happy? Of course I shouldn't just do what makes me happy. I want my parents' approval because I want them in my life. My parents provide support that I can't find anywhere else, even if they also give me headaches that I wouldn't be able to conjure with a migraine, the morning after a bender of Jack Daniels and chain smoking. Approval is the key to the compromises that come with maintaining that relationship.
That logic flows into my friendships, also. I want my friends to approve of my other friends, my cooking, my sense of style, my sense of humor, etc. I compromise with them to maintain peace, to make them feel good about themselves, and because I love them with all of my heart. When they don't approve of a decision I am making, I harshly reflect on the path of reasoning that lead me to that choice. I often find some error that I had brazenly overlooked, but, obviously, I stick by some of the unapproved choices, anyway. The key to approval is knowing when it is necessary and when to ignore that inclination and do what you must. As with most things in life, approval is a balancing test.
The most fascinating approval, though, is when I know people are seeking my approval. There are plenty of people who seek my approval, but do you want to know the amazing thing? Most of the people who want my approval are THE SAME PEOPLE WHOSE APPROVAL I SEEK. Mind-blowing, right? OK, so I didn't just reinvent the wheel, but think about the people who you want to approve of your life and choices? I'll bet you can think of times where they want your approval, also. When you stop seeking approval from a person, one of two things have happened, either you've stopped caring for the person, or they've stopped caring for you. Maniacal approval-seeking aside, normal approval helps us stay accountable to ourselves and others. I hand out approval for all kinds of things, even (and this is a secret, don't tell anybody) some things that I don't normally approve of. Here's the real clincher...ready?
.
.
.
.
Real love is knowing when to approve even if you don't. Being sought for approval is great responsibility and it is not to be taken lightly. When somebody wants you to approve of their choices or lifestyle, bear in mind that they are vulnerable and you have to choose carefully how to proceed. Unsurprisingly you must engage in another balancing test: personal/emotional safety vs. personal/emotional perception. What I perceive as wrong might be the best option for somebody else. So the moral of this story, I suppose, would be to reserve your disapproval for when it is really necessary. The impact will be felt every time you assert your disapproval, so use it cautiously. You never know when your disapproval will change a life for the worst, rather than the better.*
*But never forget to be true to your feelings and not be afraid to express your opinions to your loved ones. If they can't handle, fuck them, anyway.
1. to speak or think favorably of; pronounce or consider agreeable or good; judge favorably: to approve the policies of the administration.
2. to consent or agree to: Father approved our plan to visit Chicago.
3. to confirm or sanction formally; ratify: The Senate promptly approved the bill.
Approval - noun
1. the act of approving; approbation.
2. formal permission or sanction.
When reduced to pure definitions, "approval" is just another tree in a forest of words. However, if you are a sentient human being, and you are not incarcerated for crimes against humanity, you know as well as I do that 'approval' is a red wood among saplings, to carry the analogy further.
I seek approval from many sources: my parents, my friends, my superiors, my subordinates; when I list the sources, it exhausts me. I want my parents to approve of my choices in law school. I want them to approve of my choices in men. I want their approval of my friends. Why do I care what they think, anyway? Shouldn't I just do what makes me happy? Of course I shouldn't just do what makes me happy. I want my parents' approval because I want them in my life. My parents provide support that I can't find anywhere else, even if they also give me headaches that I wouldn't be able to conjure with a migraine, the morning after a bender of Jack Daniels and chain smoking. Approval is the key to the compromises that come with maintaining that relationship.
That logic flows into my friendships, also. I want my friends to approve of my other friends, my cooking, my sense of style, my sense of humor, etc. I compromise with them to maintain peace, to make them feel good about themselves, and because I love them with all of my heart. When they don't approve of a decision I am making, I harshly reflect on the path of reasoning that lead me to that choice. I often find some error that I had brazenly overlooked, but, obviously, I stick by some of the unapproved choices, anyway. The key to approval is knowing when it is necessary and when to ignore that inclination and do what you must. As with most things in life, approval is a balancing test.
The most fascinating approval, though, is when I know people are seeking my approval. There are plenty of people who seek my approval, but do you want to know the amazing thing? Most of the people who want my approval are THE SAME PEOPLE WHOSE APPROVAL I SEEK. Mind-blowing, right? OK, so I didn't just reinvent the wheel, but think about the people who you want to approve of your life and choices? I'll bet you can think of times where they want your approval, also. When you stop seeking approval from a person, one of two things have happened, either you've stopped caring for the person, or they've stopped caring for you. Maniacal approval-seeking aside, normal approval helps us stay accountable to ourselves and others. I hand out approval for all kinds of things, even (and this is a secret, don't tell anybody) some things that I don't normally approve of. Here's the real clincher...ready?
.
.
.
.
Real love is knowing when to approve even if you don't. Being sought for approval is great responsibility and it is not to be taken lightly. When somebody wants you to approve of their choices or lifestyle, bear in mind that they are vulnerable and you have to choose carefully how to proceed. Unsurprisingly you must engage in another balancing test: personal/emotional safety vs. personal/emotional perception. What I perceive as wrong might be the best option for somebody else. So the moral of this story, I suppose, would be to reserve your disapproval for when it is really necessary. The impact will be felt every time you assert your disapproval, so use it cautiously. You never know when your disapproval will change a life for the worst, rather than the better.*
*But never forget to be true to your feelings and not be afraid to express your opinions to your loved ones. If they can't handle, fuck them, anyway.
Friday, July 09, 2010
A Moment, A Love, A Dream Aloud
Long time, no blog, eh? Whatever, if you aren't used to that by now, you never will be. Man up, this is how it is going to be.
Speaking of my cold-heartedness, it has recently been a topic of interest to various people in my life that I don't cry. Ever. Before we all jump to the same logical (albeit incorrect) conclusions, I don't refuse to cry, it isn't a 'macho thing', and I would cry if I could. People have called me "dead inside" and "cold" but what I always find fascinating is how quickly my capacity to love is forgotten in a backlash of 'why aren't you more sad? (sic)' I defend myself, usually, by giving specific instances where I might have cried, given different circumstances. Here are a few of note:
---
When I saw "My Sister's Keeper" with my good friend Nicole, I could have cried for days. That movie is like somebody killed a thousand puppies with a kitten cannon for shits and giggles, then made you call EVERY pet owner and give them the bad news while they told you about their terminal cancer. I'm talking sad here, people. The problem? Everyone else in the theater. Imagine, if you will: Me, sitting in a theater full of sobbing women. Not crying. Not tearing up. Not softly sniffling. SOBBING. I was simply too uncomfortable to cry. Nicole, thankfully, understood, and we then went to see "The Proposal" immediately afterward to give us each a pick-me-up. Note, please, that given different circumstances, I would have cried.
When my father called me to tell me he had cancer, completely blindsiding me and wracking my world, as I knew it, I was too shocked to react at all. By the time I actually felt anything I had rationalized the scenario a thousand times in my head, and I went straight to recovery-mode, never stopping off at the sad station. (you're welcome for that analogy carrying on JUST too long) Note, had there been some sort of build-up or prior indication, I might have been better prepared to be sad, but as it turns out, there was no warning and shock seems to be a stronger emotion for me than sadness.
When I realized I was going to fail a class for the first (and last) time of my life, I could have cried. I called my parents, hoping for a light scolding followed by some good old-fashioned TLC from the parentals. Not so much. What I was confronted with was some epic guilt followed by a very pragmatic talk about what my options were from that point on and how I would recover from this tragedy, never considering how I was feeling at that moment. Note, had I simply dealt on my own, I probably would have cried it out like a child falling from a high-chair.
---
Those are just a few samples of stories I use to try and illustrate my unique inability to cry. This post, however, isn't really about me, so much as it is about an opinion. Here's my opinion, I think that I don't value sadness as an emotion enough to cry.
Still with me? Alright, good.
In a day, I feel any range of emotions: happiness, anger, frustration, hatred, bliss, joy, glee, depression, most of all, love. Rarely do I feel 'sad.' Instead, I feel other emotions. And I realize many of those words are synonymous, but I identify different feelings with each of those descriptive words. I am not sure when I chose to not be sad, but I must have chosen it, because I haven't cried since I was a child. Even my parents can't recall a time that I was sad and cried after the age of 8 (broken wrist). For every second that I might waste feeling sad, I think that I am able to experience another moment of love, instead. I don't recommend this lifestyle to everyone, obviously, as it doesn't always turn out well for me. I do, however, think that optimism combined with a lack of valuation for sadness has really taken me far in my life and if you have the cajones to do you that way, then it should be a viable option. People will stress the importance of all the emotions in your life, etc. however I am confident when I say that you just need to make sure you feel SOMETHING. Numbness won't take you places, but ranking and ordering how you feel is taking life by the balls and riding it all the way home.
Sadness, suck it. Crying, suck it. Love, welcome home.
That's what I'm saying.
Seacrest out.
Speaking of my cold-heartedness, it has recently been a topic of interest to various people in my life that I don't cry. Ever. Before we all jump to the same logical (albeit incorrect) conclusions, I don't refuse to cry, it isn't a 'macho thing', and I would cry if I could. People have called me "dead inside" and "cold" but what I always find fascinating is how quickly my capacity to love is forgotten in a backlash of 'why aren't you more sad? (sic)' I defend myself, usually, by giving specific instances where I might have cried, given different circumstances. Here are a few of note:
---
When I saw "My Sister's Keeper" with my good friend Nicole, I could have cried for days. That movie is like somebody killed a thousand puppies with a kitten cannon for shits and giggles, then made you call EVERY pet owner and give them the bad news while they told you about their terminal cancer. I'm talking sad here, people. The problem? Everyone else in the theater. Imagine, if you will: Me, sitting in a theater full of sobbing women. Not crying. Not tearing up. Not softly sniffling. SOBBING. I was simply too uncomfortable to cry. Nicole, thankfully, understood, and we then went to see "The Proposal" immediately afterward to give us each a pick-me-up. Note, please, that given different circumstances, I would have cried.
When my father called me to tell me he had cancer, completely blindsiding me and wracking my world, as I knew it, I was too shocked to react at all. By the time I actually felt anything I had rationalized the scenario a thousand times in my head, and I went straight to recovery-mode, never stopping off at the sad station. (you're welcome for that analogy carrying on JUST too long) Note, had there been some sort of build-up or prior indication, I might have been better prepared to be sad, but as it turns out, there was no warning and shock seems to be a stronger emotion for me than sadness.
When I realized I was going to fail a class for the first (and last) time of my life, I could have cried. I called my parents, hoping for a light scolding followed by some good old-fashioned TLC from the parentals. Not so much. What I was confronted with was some epic guilt followed by a very pragmatic talk about what my options were from that point on and how I would recover from this tragedy, never considering how I was feeling at that moment. Note, had I simply dealt on my own, I probably would have cried it out like a child falling from a high-chair.
---
Those are just a few samples of stories I use to try and illustrate my unique inability to cry. This post, however, isn't really about me, so much as it is about an opinion. Here's my opinion, I think that I don't value sadness as an emotion enough to cry.
Still with me? Alright, good.
In a day, I feel any range of emotions: happiness, anger, frustration, hatred, bliss, joy, glee, depression, most of all, love. Rarely do I feel 'sad.' Instead, I feel other emotions. And I realize many of those words are synonymous, but I identify different feelings with each of those descriptive words. I am not sure when I chose to not be sad, but I must have chosen it, because I haven't cried since I was a child. Even my parents can't recall a time that I was sad and cried after the age of 8 (broken wrist). For every second that I might waste feeling sad, I think that I am able to experience another moment of love, instead. I don't recommend this lifestyle to everyone, obviously, as it doesn't always turn out well for me. I do, however, think that optimism combined with a lack of valuation for sadness has really taken me far in my life and if you have the cajones to do you that way, then it should be a viable option. People will stress the importance of all the emotions in your life, etc. however I am confident when I say that you just need to make sure you feel SOMETHING. Numbness won't take you places, but ranking and ordering how you feel is taking life by the balls and riding it all the way home.
Sadness, suck it. Crying, suck it. Love, welcome home.
That's what I'm saying.
Seacrest out.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
*See first paragraph*
"Get some sour cream and onion chips with some dip, man, some beef jerky, some peanut butter. Get some Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars, a whole lot, make sure chocolate, gotta have chocolate, man. Some popcorn, red popcorn, graham crackers, graham crackers with marshmallows, the little marshmallows and little chocolate bars and we can make s'mores, man. Also, celery, grape jelly, Cap'n Crunch with the little Crunch berries, pizzas. We need two big pizzas, man, everything on 'em, with water, whole lotta water, and Funyons." - Half-Baked
I intended for that to be the title of this blog post, in a subtle homage to Fiona Apple "When the pawn..." but alas Blogger cockblocked my attempt. Bitches.
So I just spent an hour arguing with my dad over whether or not he should get medical Cannabis. (At this point, I have to point out that the image on that website is four people who make their living thanks to weed. Beautiful.) As a cancer patient (who is in chronic pain, I might add, thanks to his uber-enlarged liver. Also, he isn't sleeping at night anymore because of combined pain and nerves) he would qualify for medical marijuana to help with pain management and to help with the side-effects of his impending chemotherapy. Did I use these reasons to argue my point to my father? Nope. Instead, I went with the catch-phrase approach: "Cancer? Try Chronic!" "If somebody told me I had terminal cancer you best believe I'd be tokin' the good shit." and my personal favorite "Fuck terminal illnesses, dad, get the Ganja." Surprisingly, none of my quips got the point across to him. I think my next approach will be exposure therapy to repeated playings of "Purple Haze." If that doesn't get him, I might have to throw in the towel here. Of course, my dad's arguments back to me were equally pathetic...things like "no" or "haha". The battle rages, I think.
I legitimately think my dad needs something to manage his pain because I share a Macaulay trait with him: we don't express our pain. If we are in pain, we rarely show it. (Ask any of my friends who have had to drag me to the hospital, like Nicole, for instance). Since being home today, my father has only gotten off of the couch to go to church with my mom and I, but otherwise he just lays there, wincing when he moves. To the untrained eye, he appears to just be lazing about on a Saturday afternoon, an endeavor that would not be held against him, even without cancer, but to those who know him, he is in a lot of pain and showing it. It would be a lie to say that it didn't trouble me. But, what can I do? The answer, of course, is not much. Still praying, still researching, still making myself better, but when coming face to face with stuff like this, it forces a reality check.
While being home, I can't relegate the troubles here to a distant part of my world, only letting them tickle the outer limits of my law school calm, like reeds on a lake causing tiny ripples, barely visible at the center of the water. I feel, at once, eager to return to the glassy surface on my proverbial lake in Lansing, and a strong pull to be here in Saginaw, providing a level attitude. My mother is still not herself, and my dad is starting to show his true feelings (something that is very unlike him or me). It is an unfortunate situation here at the Macaulay stronghold, but, as usual, we will keep on keeping on. This coming week, like all coming weeks, will be full of challenges, but I am confident that my father, mother, and I will face them head on and find support when/where/if we need it.
To finish this on a happy note, because I'll be damned if I write a post that is purely devoted to my concerns like some pussy emo bitch that wears black nail polish or like some emo dude who listens to Panic! at the Disco (you know who you are, haha), I call to attention, again, the fact that there is a website devoted entirely to legal marijuana in Michigan (sweeeeeeeet, man). Also, the music used for the Olympics promo about ice dancing? Lady MOTHERFUCKING Gaga! Seems inappropriate, but I'll take my Gaga when I can. Bitches.
I intended for that to be the title of this blog post, in a subtle homage to Fiona Apple "When the pawn..." but alas Blogger cockblocked my attempt. Bitches.
So I just spent an hour arguing with my dad over whether or not he should get medical Cannabis. (At this point, I have to point out that the image on that website is four people who make their living thanks to weed. Beautiful.) As a cancer patient (who is in chronic pain, I might add, thanks to his uber-enlarged liver. Also, he isn't sleeping at night anymore because of combined pain and nerves) he would qualify for medical marijuana to help with pain management and to help with the side-effects of his impending chemotherapy. Did I use these reasons to argue my point to my father? Nope. Instead, I went with the catch-phrase approach: "Cancer? Try Chronic!" "If somebody told me I had terminal cancer you best believe I'd be tokin' the good shit." and my personal favorite "Fuck terminal illnesses, dad, get the Ganja." Surprisingly, none of my quips got the point across to him. I think my next approach will be exposure therapy to repeated playings of "Purple Haze." If that doesn't get him, I might have to throw in the towel here. Of course, my dad's arguments back to me were equally pathetic...things like "no" or "haha". The battle rages, I think.
I legitimately think my dad needs something to manage his pain because I share a Macaulay trait with him: we don't express our pain. If we are in pain, we rarely show it. (Ask any of my friends who have had to drag me to the hospital, like Nicole, for instance). Since being home today, my father has only gotten off of the couch to go to church with my mom and I, but otherwise he just lays there, wincing when he moves. To the untrained eye, he appears to just be lazing about on a Saturday afternoon, an endeavor that would not be held against him, even without cancer, but to those who know him, he is in a lot of pain and showing it. It would be a lie to say that it didn't trouble me. But, what can I do? The answer, of course, is not much. Still praying, still researching, still making myself better, but when coming face to face with stuff like this, it forces a reality check.
While being home, I can't relegate the troubles here to a distant part of my world, only letting them tickle the outer limits of my law school calm, like reeds on a lake causing tiny ripples, barely visible at the center of the water. I feel, at once, eager to return to the glassy surface on my proverbial lake in Lansing, and a strong pull to be here in Saginaw, providing a level attitude. My mother is still not herself, and my dad is starting to show his true feelings (something that is very unlike him or me). It is an unfortunate situation here at the Macaulay stronghold, but, as usual, we will keep on keeping on. This coming week, like all coming weeks, will be full of challenges, but I am confident that my father, mother, and I will face them head on and find support when/where/if we need it.
To finish this on a happy note, because I'll be damned if I write a post that is purely devoted to my concerns like some pussy emo bitch that wears black nail polish or like some emo dude who listens to Panic! at the Disco (you know who you are, haha), I call to attention, again, the fact that there is a website devoted entirely to legal marijuana in Michigan (sweeeeeeeet, man). Also, the music used for the Olympics promo about ice dancing? Lady MOTHERFUCKING Gaga! Seems inappropriate, but I'll take my Gaga when I can. Bitches.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
"I'm just a love machine and I won't work for nobody but you"
First, I must say, that I am blogging robot. I have blogged a lot in the past week, I tell you.
Anywhichway, today I bowled for the second time this week. I subbed on a team with a group of new friends that I made. A few of the team members were acquaintances of mine prior to tonight, but before my bowling experience, I would not have considered any of these people as 'friends.' Unsurprisingly, though, all it took was a pitcher of beer, some serious laughs, and TONS of inappropriate humor and I now find myself with a bunch of new BFFs. It is here that I shall branch into the meat of this blog post: my ability to make immediate friends.
For most of my young life, I challenged myself to never be introverted, to thrust myself into social situations headfirst, and through my tooth and nail approach to relationships, I have made lots of friends in my day. Now, as an adult (in the eyes of the law, at least), this skill rarely lets me down, and has given me a seemingly infinite network of people to rely on and places to travel. My life is full of love and friendship and I feel blessed every day for the people I know and the relationships that I have. It is nights like tonight that remind me how many blessings I can find in my surroundings.
Now, by this point, if I were reading this blog post, I would presume that there is a giant "BUT" coming. And usually your intuition would be correct, but tonight, I am going to go for broke and just leave you on a positive note, reader. No matter the adversity, no matter the shit storm flying your way, blessings are not so hard to find, if you look in the right places.
(don't worry, I'll get dark again by my next post, I'm sure)
Bitches. (There. Happy? Good. Me too.)
Anywhichway, today I bowled for the second time this week. I subbed on a team with a group of new friends that I made. A few of the team members were acquaintances of mine prior to tonight, but before my bowling experience, I would not have considered any of these people as 'friends.' Unsurprisingly, though, all it took was a pitcher of beer, some serious laughs, and TONS of inappropriate humor and I now find myself with a bunch of new BFFs. It is here that I shall branch into the meat of this blog post: my ability to make immediate friends.
For most of my young life, I challenged myself to never be introverted, to thrust myself into social situations headfirst, and through my tooth and nail approach to relationships, I have made lots of friends in my day. Now, as an adult (in the eyes of the law, at least), this skill rarely lets me down, and has given me a seemingly infinite network of people to rely on and places to travel. My life is full of love and friendship and I feel blessed every day for the people I know and the relationships that I have. It is nights like tonight that remind me how many blessings I can find in my surroundings.
Now, by this point, if I were reading this blog post, I would presume that there is a giant "BUT" coming. And usually your intuition would be correct, but tonight, I am going to go for broke and just leave you on a positive note, reader. No matter the adversity, no matter the shit storm flying your way, blessings are not so hard to find, if you look in the right places.
(don't worry, I'll get dark again by my next post, I'm sure)
Bitches. (There. Happy? Good. Me too.)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Nacqui all'affanno
So last night, Elle and I made a 4th meal run, as is typical on Mondays, and while at Taco Bell this happened:
Order Box (OB): Hi welcome to Taco Bell, how are you tonight?
Me: I'm well thank you, how are you?
OB: Good. Go ahead with your order when you're ready.
Me: Ok, let's see I think I want...
OB: (in a man's whisper) burritos
Me: Actually, yes, a 5-layer burrito, and 3 cheese roll-ups...
OB: (in a man's whisper) gordita crunch
Me: ...and a cheesy gordita crunch. What else do you have, Miss Cleo?
OB: *silence*
Me: Ok, so also a double decker supreme.
When I went up to pay, nothing was said about the omniscient voice, but I blog about it here, today, so that it can be notice to the world. Taco Bell employs psychics, and they sound strangely like a shitty Dane Cook joke.
Special sauce all over my pussy. And, yes, I am ashamed that I remembered that reference without having to Google it. Stupid Dane Cook.
Order Box (OB): Hi welcome to Taco Bell, how are you tonight?
Me: I'm well thank you, how are you?
OB: Good. Go ahead with your order when you're ready.
Me: Ok, let's see I think I want...
OB: (in a man's whisper) burritos
Me: Actually, yes, a 5-layer burrito, and 3 cheese roll-ups...
OB: (in a man's whisper) gordita crunch
Me: ...and a cheesy gordita crunch. What else do you have, Miss Cleo?
OB: *silence*
Me: Ok, so also a double decker supreme.
When I went up to pay, nothing was said about the omniscient voice, but I blog about it here, today, so that it can be notice to the world. Taco Bell employs psychics, and they sound strangely like a shitty Dane Cook joke.
Special sauce all over my pussy. And, yes, I am ashamed that I remembered that reference without having to Google it. Stupid Dane Cook.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
"I am very sensitive to people's energy, so I meet new people and get exhausted"
As is typical, I have forsaken the blog for a while. I recently read an article saying that blogging was considered "uncool" by the younger generation. To this I say: shut up little kids. Bitches.
Anyway, now that that is out of the way, it is time to proceed to the subject of my blog: Drag Queens.
You might as yourself, "What is he talking about Drag Queens for?" and you will have to read the remainder of the blog to find out. My last semester really flew by without much of a hitch. I got some grades, most of which were good and satisfying for me. I made the Dean's List and Honor Roll (because I'm pretty sweet). And I, generally, have been riding pretty high.
Until...
A few weeks ago, my dad called me to tell me about my grandpa getting his heart valve replaced. The replacement went very well, and my grandpa remains in pretty good health, all things considered, and he now the proud owner of a brand new heart valve. In this same call, my father let me know that he was having some medical problems of his own.
He drove himself to the hospital, (because my mom had to play tennis that morning...classic) thinking that he had appendicitis, complaining of side pain. When he arrived they did a physical exam then took and x-ray and found a lump growing in his chest. After a CT scan, a Dr. friend of ours gave him a tentative diagnosis of lung cancer. A needle biopsy confirmed the presence of cancer in his chest, and also on his liver (explaining the side pain). My father, being the intelligent man that he is, got a second opinion. My father and mother went to University of Michigan for said second opinion, and the lung cancer specialist there informed my father, without seeing the scans, that it is more likely that he had thymus cancer, a particularly rare form of cancer that is very rarely researched and has never been cured. Long story short: my father has Thymoma. It has already metastasized to his liver and he starts chemotherapy this coming week. Now for pros and cons.
Pros:
- My father is in very good shape for his age
- He will be able to take more chemo than most cancer patients
- He has a great Oncologist in Saginaw to administer his chemo
- He is under the care of the foremost expert on this type of obscure cancer
- He has beaten cancer twice before (Melanoma and Thyroid Cancer)
- He can fight this for a long time
- After each remission (of which I hope he has many) he will have 6 months to 2 years of remission before having to go under more chemotherapy
Cons:
- His cancer is potentially terminal (largely uncured)
- It is already Stage IV (the final stage)
- It might kill him one day
Neither:
- Life is officially different forever
From here on out, my dad will be a cancer patient. It is still very surreal to admit that fact. My emotions, understandably, have been all over the place for the past week or so but I have finally gotten my mind around this whole thing. Prayer prayer and more prayer is going to be my approach to this whole thing, and thus far, I've been able to hold it together well enough to keep on keeping on. What I am most thankful for is that, aside from my family business going south really quickly, the rest of my life is heading in a grand forward motion. I'm studying, I'm getting decent grades, I'm getting involved, and I'm setting realistic career goals for myself.
This whole experience has already begun to push me. I have a professor whose mother died while she was in law school and she became incredibly motivated to work hard and succeed, because she knew that with her mother sick and dying, there was always someplace (home) that she should be other than law school, so if she was going to be away from home, she had best make it worth her while. I am adopting this motivation technique, however, I am applying it to my whole life. I'm not just going to study more, I am going to live more. I'm putting myself out there. I'm working out. I'm eating healthier. I am becoming a better me.
Already I have become a better version of myself. A version that I like. A lot.
Now, at this point, after the bad news and emo self-reflection, I'm sure you are wondering how the hell is this post about Drag Queens?? Well, you see, in three weeks, my father's hair will be falling out. This, of course, will require some sort of hair replacement. My endeavor, this week, is to find my father the most fantastic Drag Queen wig that the world has ever seen. I am open to suggestions, but as it stands now, I am eagerly shopping online for drag wigs. It will be an epic gift and I will be sure to post pictures once they have become available.
I admit that my segue from illness to shemales is flimsy at best, but would you really have wanted to read the post if I had said the subject was "terminal cancer"? Yeah, me either. Hell, I didn't really want to write it.
Anyway, now that that is out of the way, it is time to proceed to the subject of my blog: Drag Queens.
You might as yourself, "What is he talking about Drag Queens for?" and you will have to read the remainder of the blog to find out. My last semester really flew by without much of a hitch. I got some grades, most of which were good and satisfying for me. I made the Dean's List and Honor Roll (because I'm pretty sweet). And I, generally, have been riding pretty high.
Until...
A few weeks ago, my dad called me to tell me about my grandpa getting his heart valve replaced. The replacement went very well, and my grandpa remains in pretty good health, all things considered, and he now the proud owner of a brand new heart valve. In this same call, my father let me know that he was having some medical problems of his own.
He drove himself to the hospital, (because my mom had to play tennis that morning...classic) thinking that he had appendicitis, complaining of side pain. When he arrived they did a physical exam then took and x-ray and found a lump growing in his chest. After a CT scan, a Dr. friend of ours gave him a tentative diagnosis of lung cancer. A needle biopsy confirmed the presence of cancer in his chest, and also on his liver (explaining the side pain). My father, being the intelligent man that he is, got a second opinion. My father and mother went to University of Michigan for said second opinion, and the lung cancer specialist there informed my father, without seeing the scans, that it is more likely that he had thymus cancer, a particularly rare form of cancer that is very rarely researched and has never been cured. Long story short: my father has Thymoma. It has already metastasized to his liver and he starts chemotherapy this coming week. Now for pros and cons.
Pros:
- My father is in very good shape for his age
- He will be able to take more chemo than most cancer patients
- He has a great Oncologist in Saginaw to administer his chemo
- He is under the care of the foremost expert on this type of obscure cancer
- He has beaten cancer twice before (Melanoma and Thyroid Cancer)
- He can fight this for a long time
- After each remission (of which I hope he has many) he will have 6 months to 2 years of remission before having to go under more chemotherapy
Cons:
- His cancer is potentially terminal (largely uncured)
- It is already Stage IV (the final stage)
- It might kill him one day
Neither:
- Life is officially different forever
From here on out, my dad will be a cancer patient. It is still very surreal to admit that fact. My emotions, understandably, have been all over the place for the past week or so but I have finally gotten my mind around this whole thing. Prayer prayer and more prayer is going to be my approach to this whole thing, and thus far, I've been able to hold it together well enough to keep on keeping on. What I am most thankful for is that, aside from my family business going south really quickly, the rest of my life is heading in a grand forward motion. I'm studying, I'm getting decent grades, I'm getting involved, and I'm setting realistic career goals for myself.
This whole experience has already begun to push me. I have a professor whose mother died while she was in law school and she became incredibly motivated to work hard and succeed, because she knew that with her mother sick and dying, there was always someplace (home) that she should be other than law school, so if she was going to be away from home, she had best make it worth her while. I am adopting this motivation technique, however, I am applying it to my whole life. I'm not just going to study more, I am going to live more. I'm putting myself out there. I'm working out. I'm eating healthier. I am becoming a better me.
Already I have become a better version of myself. A version that I like. A lot.
Now, at this point, after the bad news and emo self-reflection, I'm sure you are wondering how the hell is this post about Drag Queens?? Well, you see, in three weeks, my father's hair will be falling out. This, of course, will require some sort of hair replacement. My endeavor, this week, is to find my father the most fantastic Drag Queen wig that the world has ever seen. I am open to suggestions, but as it stands now, I am eagerly shopping online for drag wigs. It will be an epic gift and I will be sure to post pictures once they have become available.
I admit that my segue from illness to shemales is flimsy at best, but would you really have wanted to read the post if I had said the subject was "terminal cancer"? Yeah, me either. Hell, I didn't really want to write it.
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