Lunch with Jeremy
When I was in high school, I didn’t have many friends. Since I was bullied and outcast daily for being gay, guys in particular stayed far away from me. Even the ones who didn’t necessarily pick on me still didn’t want to be seen talking to me for fear of association.
But there was this one boy. His name was Jeremy. He was a few years older than I am and we met in the lunch room. Every day, he sat across from me with his brown paper bag lunch of a bologna sandwich with mustard, a milk carton (2%), and a bright red apple for dessert.
Jeremy was disproportionally tall and didn’t seem to have completely adjusted to his teenaged body yet. His arms were long and lanky and made the sleeves of his polo shirts look freakishly short. His hair was blond, the golden color of straw, only much softer. He kept it parted down the left side and the front of it fell against his forehead but he kept it brushed to the side as best he could. His face was very bird-like, with a nose and pointed lips that seemed to almost be attached.
He was dorky and unpopular, an outcast like me, but nobody gave him any trouble. In fact, I don’t think anyone even knew he was there. Jeremy was like a ghost. He sat there with his sandwich and milk, staring off in deep thoughts as if something much more signifiant was taking place inside that head of his.
One day, Jeremy turned and look at me, like he’d just awoken from a trance and noticed me there. He extended a cold, bony hand out to me and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Jeremy. How are you today?” And his eyes were bright and friendly, his demeanor very polite. I don’t think Jeremy belonged there in the 1990s. I always suspected he was born in the 1920s or ’30s and had somehow been preserved in a time capsule for decades.
We became fast friends, making small talk about the weather or the news. Like grown men. We never talked about anything too personal or controversial. That seemed to be an unspoken rule. When it was time to eat his apple, he took large bites out of it, like an alligator devouring a small animal. His eyebrows transformed into tall, sharp arches and his whole face contorted. It was kind of scary at first. But I eventually found it endearing and laughed about it secretly. Jeremy had no idea how funny he looked, and it didn’t really matter.
After he was done eating, he threw away his trash and began reading a book. It was a ritual that took place every day, without fail, and when it was time to read, I took the cue to stop talking. I liked reading as well so I took out my book and read with him. We sat quietly until the bell rang, pulling us out of the world we’d been immersed in through our reading. Before leaving, Jeremy made eye contact with me again, letting me know he hadn’t forgotten about me, and told me to have a nice day.
Jeremy and I spent our lunches together for at least 2 years. Over time, the rumors about me became louder and harder to ignore. Jeremy heard them, but I’d never confirmed them, so he seemed to find comfort in believing I was in fact heterosexual. No threat to his masculinity at all. We just sat quietly at the table, making small talk as we ate until it was time to read together.
I really liked Jeremy. I don’t think I was attracted to him, although I sometimes wondered what kind of underwear he wore. I can’t explain why. I was young and curious, and believed underwear could be very telling about a person. I always figured they were white briefs with those elastic waistbands and skinny blue and red stripes around the band. What brand was that? Fruit of the Loom? Whatever they were, I’m certain they were predictable and consistent, just like Jeremy.
One day, when the secret of my sexual orientation became far too heavy to hide, I decided to confide in Jeremy and tell him that most of what he’d heard about me was true. I figured he’d be unhappy about it, but then again, how could he act surprised? He knew me about as well as anybody, at least on a platonic level.
So I told him, “Jeremy, I’m gay.”
He looked away, as if the confirmation was too disappointing to handle. Then he quietly collected his lunch and brown paper bag, got up, and said to me, “I don’t care for that at all.” His words were soft, without judgement or threat. They were just facts. That’s how he felt.
That was the last day Jeremy and I ever had lunch together, or even spoke. And just like a ghost, he faded away. I never saw him in the halls, but then again, I don’t think I ever had anyway. But his absence was known to me, and it made me sad for awhile. It’s weird because I wonder if anyone else at all even knows who he was. If you asked the kids in his graduating class, would they even recognize the name?
But I was reading something last night that reminded me of him. I wondered how he’s doing and what he’s become. I’m almost certain he’s a writer of some sort. And the thing is, I’m not sure if I ever truly believed he was offended by my admission of being gay. Instead, I think he was more disturbed by the personal nature of my comment. Almost as if he was incapable of that level of honesty from another human.
So that’s my story of lunch with Jeremy. In a way, I think he was one of my greatest friends, even if he didn’t understand me at all.
The 20 Hour Work Week?
A few days ago, a client scolded me for not working during the weekend.
“I called you all weekend. Why didn’t you answer your phone?” she asked.
Well the first problem is that I had no record of her calling repeatedly. There was a log of one missed call early Friday evening. So she was either exaggerating or flat out lying. In either case, I use Google Voice to manage my business calls and clients who call after hours receive a message that informs them I’m closed for the evening or weekend.
I gently reminded her that I’m not on call 24/7. I’m a website designer, not a doctor, after all. This seemed to perplex her because she works from 7 A.M. – 10 P.M., only taking breaks for meals and church. Wow. Is that someone’s idea of a life?
This isn’t the first time I’ve been given a lecture either. Some people find it downright shocking that I have outside interests, hobbies, and goals, which have nothing to do with work. Further, they find it inconceivable that I don’t plan to spend my last dying breath working at my computer. Wild, isn’t it?
For the most part, I’ve adopted a 20-30 hour work week. I never reveal this to a client because I fear their head would explode. But it’s true. I’ve worked very hard over the last 15 or so years trying to improve my strategy as a designer. So when I do work, it’s concentrated into very detailed execution. Then I have free time to focus on other goals, such as working on my novel.
I’m not a big fan of the expectation to work 40 hours. The weird thing is that most people aren’t really working that long anyway. They waste a few hours on Facebook, a few hours reading news, maybe a little time playing games online. If you added up the actual work they did, it would probably just be 30 hours worth. So why not cut past all the crap and let employees working shorter shifts, therefore encouraging them to be efficient with their time? Get in, get out, and get back home so you can do the fun things you really like.
Many countries already use this system and have found it really is better. But here we’ve been conditioned to believe that we’re supposed to sit at a desk all damn day, and that somehow equates to being productive. Instead, I just think it causes people to burn out and lose their enthusiasm.
It’s something to ponder. Thankfully, being self employed, I’ve found a system that is successful and still provides a paycheck. Clients may squabble about it from time to time, but that’s okay. I’ll enjoy a glass of wine while they’re stuck at their desk.
So I’m Unbalanced
Illustration by Marcus Cutler
A few days ago Daniel and I became proud owners of a Wii Fit Plus. It instantly became our new addiction.
I generally find exercise to be boring and prefer vodka and laxatives. Yum! Thankfully I’ve managed to maintain a healthy weight and my BMI is within the normal range. The game recommended I lose 7 pounds to be optimal so I’m going to work on that.
My real issue is apparently balance. I fail at any exercise that requires me to use posture or coordination to gain points. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I’m 30 and I’ve been designing websites since I was 15. A good chunk of my life has been spent in a chair working at a computer. I’m obviously slouching more than I should even though I try to make it a habit to sit up straight. Now my life as a web developer appears to be taking a toll.
I’m confident Wii Fit Plus will assist me with improving myself. If nothing else it’s made me more aware.
But I still laugh every time it says I’m unbalanced! Thanks Nintendo.
Flashback— Wednesday Words: Lose the extra “o”
The post below was originally published in 2006 during a weekly series I wrote about common spelling errors. I think my sentiments of the article remain the same and it’s worth sharing again.
—
When I first learned how to spell the word “lose”, I’m certain it only had one “o” in it. I don’t know what grade it was, but I’m sure it was easy.
Throughout my school years, “lose” continued to only have one “o” in it. It’s a very common word, I probably saw it at least once a day. Then, somewhere in the 21st century, I started noticing a strange trend. Two o’s!
Wha-wha-whaaaat? Did I miss something? Did Webster change their dictionary? When did the the word “lose” become “loose”?
I see it almost daily, on blogs written by grown adults. I know that it’s wrong, and my mind goes off track when I see it. Think of a needle being knocked off a record. You know that scratching sound? Yep, that’s what I hear in my head.
The worst example is when someone is called a “looser”. Don’t even get my started with that one.
So remember, dear bloggers, whenever you are in doubt, just remember this easy phrase:
A loose butthole will make guys lose interest in you.
How to Get Optimal Sleep
Have you ever got up after 8 hours of sleep and felt like a train hit you? Or got up after only 6 and felt surprisingly chipper?
The reason for this oddity may be related to your sleep patterns. The average person has 5 cycles of sleep, each lasting 90 minutes. So the optimal amount of sleep would be 7.5 hours. Getting up after 8 hours means you’ve interrupted a sixth cycle, which can leave you feeling groggy and disoriented. The reason you felt surprisingly good after only 6 hours is because you woke up right at the end of a cycle. However, 6 hours of sleep on a regular basis is not ideal and can cause long-term health effects.
In the past, I’ve always had trouble with getting up after 8 hours and this may explain why. I preferred to stay in bed and sleep 9 hours, which made me feel much better. That would make sense because 9 hours is an even breaking point for the 90 minute cycles. Today I tried the 7.5 hour rule and it seemed to work. I actually felt pretty good and was ready to start the day. The only problem is that our dog Anna got into bed at that time, and it was preferable to cuddle up to her rather than getting out of bed. So yeah, I still slept 9 hours. 
I learned about the sleep cycles through this interesting article on LifeHacker. You might want to try it out to see if you feel better or worse compared to your normal routine. Just make sure the amount of sleep you get divides into 90 minute intervals and also add on 15 minutes because most people need about 15 minutes to fall asleep at night.
New Chapter: Justin’s First Session
I have a new chapter to share from the book I’m writing on. The previous two chapters can be read here. To get you up to speed, we’re dealing with a mother named Mary Anne who’s discovered her 16-year-old son Justin is gay. She’s forced him to start counseling sessions with a priest, Father Robert.
Please provide your feedback in the comments. This is a draft and work in progress, so any thoughts you’d like to share on the storyline and character development are greatly appreciated. Thank you.
JUSTIN’S FIRST SESSION
Robert walked down the long hallway of the church corridors. The heels of his black leather loafers clicked against the floor. A cool breeze blew in from the open windows, causing the sheer white curtains to float in the air like ghosts as he passed them.
When he arrived at the rectory, Justin and Mary Anne were waiting in the sitting area. The mother stood when Robert entered the room, then elbowed her son to do the same.
“Good evening, Mary Anne.” He shook her hand firmly to convey his confidence.
“Father Robert, this is my son, Justin.”
The young man flashed a seething stare at the priest, then went back to playing on his phone.
“Now, Justin, remember what I said about putting your phone away when we got here.” She was demanding, not asking, in that high-pitched nagging tone mothers are so good at making.
Justin begrudgingly obliged, stuffing the phone in the tiny front pocket of his body-hugging black jeans. He wore a thin t-shirt with alternating charcoal and black stripes that framed his delicate outline. His hair was dark with a purple stripe that curved from the right side to the front and his purple canvas sneakers matched.
His parents really had no idea?, Robert thought to himself. He nodded his head toward the next room, where their session would be.
Justin glared one last time at his mother before walking away with the priest.
Just Because It’s Your Right Doesn’t Mean You’re Right
Although the First Amendment protects what we say, that doesn’t always mean it’s in good taste to say it.
I was recently disappointed to see the use of the word “fag” in an article on one of my favorite humor websites. Although the website is famous for crude, snarky editorials, the writers never pick on specific groups of people… Until now.
From a writing standpoint, I am very much aware that they are free to use whatever words they want. But just because they have the right to use these words does not mean it is right to use them. (A little play on words there.) When I point this out, some people are quick to argue, “Hey, you’re infringing on freedom of speech. Let me get out my American flag and wave it in your face while I recite the First Amendment to you.”
This has nothing to do with rights or privileges. It’s about courtesy and tact. I decided to write a personal letter to the author and explain my position to him. He wrote me back very quickly and was very thoughtful in his reply.
- Here’s a snippet of what he said:
I appreciate that the word has power, though as a heterosexual male I wouldn’t ever claim to understand it as gay person must. I appreciate it can be damaging and have zero intention of dismissing it as “just as word”. However, the word doesn’t lose its impact by trying to remove it from our vernacular.
That’s not true. He’s implying that removing the word doesn’t solve anything. But if nobody said that word, it would be one less word that bullies could use against gay people.
- Here is a portion of my reply:
There’s no way to even began to relate the damage it causes from a gay perspective. The best I can do is point out once again that we have gay teens all around us shooting themselves, hanging themselves, slitting their wrists, and taking overdoses of pills. And that word you used is usually a significant contributor to the low self esteem that eventually leads to their demise.
… The word has a domino effect. Someone reads it once and it sends a signal that the word is acceptable. Then they read it again and again, and eventually it becomes part of their vocabulary. One day, they find themselves calling someone else a fag, maybe even as a joke, but that incident gets saved into a gay person’s memory. Rinse and repeat until finally that gay person has heard that word so many times that it begins to break them down… [As a writer] You have a choice whether or not you want to be a contributor to that.
We went through several rounds of this, and I appreciated his willingness to have the discussion. In the end, however, he stood by his decision to make a joke about a “fag” in his article. It was very disappointing to see a straight male try to ration with me that the use of a word is okay when I’ve felt the impact of it and he has not.
- Before closing, he paid me this compliment:
Though we’ve never met, I like you. You’re fighting for sensitivity and empathy, two traits this world sorely lack. This is obviously a personal concern of yours, yet you’ve taken every precaution not to resort to personal attacks with me. It shows character and heart.
With that, I just want to say to please know that your words have power. Be careful how you use them. Just because it’s your right to use them doesn’t mean you’re right to use them.
Blue Ivy, This Is Unacceptable Behavior
By now, many of you have heard about the birth of Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s first child, Blue Ivy.
(Stop snickering, damn it.)
And as you might imagine, there is a story behind the baby’s unique name. Blue is a recurring theme in the album titles and lyrics of Jay-Z’s music. Some say it’s his favorite color too. Fine, let’s go with that. And Ivy is a play on the roman number IV (four). Jay-Z was born on December 4, Beyoncé was born on September 4, and the couple was married on April 4. Also, Beyoncé’s album 4 was her fourth consecutive solo album to debut at #1 on the Billboard 200 chart.
Now here’s my problem…
Clearly the number four is extremely symbolic for the couple. So why did they wait until January 7 to have the baby? They should have induced labor on January 4 to continue the family tradition.
Blue Ivy, coming into the world 3 days late is unacceptable behavior. Now go to your room! I’m not mad at you, I’m just mad at the situation.
Graduation Day
Over the weekend, our dog Anna graduated from obedience training. She celebrated this momentous occasion by promptly taking a shit in the middle of the floor, right in front of her instructor. Then, to make sure she left a lasting impression, she got into a slapping fight with her classmate.
That’s our girl.
Weekend Flashback: Mr. Manners, Bathroom Edition
I originally published the article below in January 2006 and still think it’s funny to read. So tonight I’m going to share it again:
—
This is the post you’ve been waiting all your life for. Well the day has finally come. I’m going to tell you about my bathroom annoyances. Yay!
Toilet Paper Positioning
Well, I’m not too picky about it. But what is up with the people who put it on the roll backwards? Ellen Degeneres has discussed this subject, and I agree with her. It does not make any sense for the roll to pull from the back. Look at the photo for an example. That’s how it should be.
Toilet Paper Stacking
Somebody in our bathroom at work sets one roll of toilet paper on top of the hanging roll. Why? This prevents me from using the toilet paper, because obviously it can’t roll if something is sitting on top of it. So I have to pick up the top roll and set it on the back of the toilet.
I don’t get it. Actually, I know exactly who does it. I don’t know what his deal is. Why do you stack your toilet paper?
Not Washing Your Hands
There is one guy at work who does NOT wash his hands after he pees. Why? How gross. I will never shake his hand again, nor will I touch the mouse on his desk, or ink pens, or anything he’s touched.
How rude. He’s such a nice guy too. I’m so disappointed.
Look, there is no excuse for people not washing their hands. Nobody wants to shake your hand after you’ve touched your dick. Practice good hygiene…or at least be considerate of other people.
No Courtesy Flush
When you’re taking a shit, you always flush after the main chocolate bomb drops. It helps reduce the smell. Please, do the courtesy flush. And flush again after you’re done, obviously. The people who use the bathroom afterwards highly appreciate it.
If you have an upset stomach, the rules change. Flush often, and clean up after yourself if you’ve made chocolate milk. Splatter on the rim is not hot.
In Closing
Sometimes, ya just gotta get it all out. Pun intended. I hope this has been useful and informative.
To the guy who doesn’t wash his hands…you’ve been warned. And to the toilet paper stacker…well, we’ll see about you.
There is one topic I purposely left out. I think it’s been discussed enough. 
