Sam and I are in great danger of overdosing on Sex and the City. It all started when we would catch a random rerun here or there on E!, which led to my offhand comment that the editing for TV has completely ruined the show. In what was likely also an offhand comment, Sam expressed muted and passing interest in watching the unneutered version, and I seized upon his momentary lapse of judgement. Two weeks later, we have left seasons one and two in our collective dust and are quickly plowing through the third, in spite of his (muted and passing) protestations.
In one of the (four) episodes we watched last night, Miranda revealed her age to be 34. I told Sam that in three years, I will be Miranda's show-age. "Weird," I said. "I used to think they were so much older." He replied in a huff, "Well, thank you, sweetheart," overemphasizing the last two words in the way he does when wants to feign annoyance.
Or maybe he wasn't feigning. Today is, after all, his birthday. For some portion of this day, before the passage of one particular minute of one particular hour, he is 39. After, he will inextricably turn 40.
I know that there is some cosmic and intangible significance to turning 40, but I couldn't describe it any better than just that, and Sam has yet to show any awareness of (or desire for) this significance.
I wanted to throw him this big party or make a hullabaloo over the occasion, but I just don't have the creativity or know-how to pull it off, and he's not really a hullabaloo kind of guy. We are two pretty introverted people who keep mostly to ourselves, so a surprise party would likely have two attendees: me and Grr, which is hardly a party, and even less so a surprise (unless Grr behaves like a good pup, which would lately be quite the surprise). So instead, we fall back to tradition: a nice and quiet dinner out.
We have done this every year for his birthday for the last five years. He was 35 when we met. That little statistic came to me this morning at the gym, followed quickly by its corollary: I was 26. I shudder a bit to think of who I was when I was that age, lost and confused (more so than I am now, anyway) and unsure of what I wanted from love. I look at myself now, glad that I at least have that last part mostly sorted out, and I barely resemble the person I was back then.
On the flip side, I can still see every trace of the Sam I met five years ago, the man I sat next to at Brick, an up-and-coming restaurant in the forever-on-the-verge Tenderloin neighborhood. We had just met a few weeks ago, yet there we were, celebrating his 35th birthday, and me with awe in my eyes wondering what I did to capture the attention of someone who could make me laugh in a way that I had to find myself afterwards.
I wished then that I had I known him all of my life, and all of his as well. I still do, but I'll take what I can get, and I'm certainly not complaining. 35 was, after all, just the beginning. 40 is just getting good.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
7/6/2011 - the heat wave is moving out. . .
One year after buying our loft and moving in, I have made my peace with its various imperfections. I mean, I told myself that I never expected it to be perfect, but on hindsight, I must have had some degree of expectation, especially of something that came with a multi-thousand dollar, multi-decade debt.
After a few months of disappointment and something akin to buyer's remorse due to these imperfections, I woke from my stupor and recognized how I was letting a few flaws ruin what was (and is) an otherwise terrific home. In doing so, the noise from our upstairs neighbor dramatically decreased (or at least my awareness of it), and I barely give the busy street below our window much thought anymore. And after my bike was stolen from our secured garage, I have accepted it to be a hazard of living in an urban city and simply bought another one and keep it in the house.
I can't imagine living anywhere else, and I am proud of the home that Sam and I have made together. And in the spirit of my living gratefully for the year, I try not dwell on the small stuff. However, for argument's sake, if I had to think of one thing I'd change, it would be the temperature inside.
A selling point that the agent hammered into us repeatedly was the radiant heating mechanism under our floorboards. And I'm sure it will work spectacularly when we go to use it, but I could not say for sure since we have never had to fire it up. Our unit magically maintains a temperature about five or 10 degrees warmer than the weather outside, and given San Francisco's recent (and relative) heat wave for the last few days, our house has become something of a dry sauna in the late afternoons and evenings.
And this hits a particularly sensitive nerve with me because I have already lived, and hated living, in two dry saunas within the last decade. My first solitary apartment in college had huge west-facing windows. When I stayed in Davis for summer school one year, I never wanted to come home because I couldn't even sit still, much less study, without breaking into a sweat. I have never spent more time at libraries or coffee shops before or since.
Similarly, my hovel of an apartment in Oakland a few years ago was a 300-square foot oven that also faced the setting sun (I don't easily learn my lessons, apparently), but I could open the front door for a cross-breeze when necessary. Winter in this apartment, however, was a different story, one with drafty walls and a broken heater. That year, the Bay Area experienced one of the coldest winters in the history of cold, and I resorted to taking long, scalding showers and sleeping in a sweatshirt under three layers of blankets.
But I could tolerate it all because I was a poor, young renter. Now, I am still poor but arguably an adult, and I can no longer hop from apartment to apartment whenever the urge compels me, not with this noose-shaped mortgage around my neck. After three days of (again, relative) heat in the City, I couldn't help but appeal to the universe: Is it so much to ask that I have a comfortable, climate-controlled house to come home to?
This morning, as I coasted my bike out of our building and up 11th Street toward Market, I saw the first sign that the universe had indeed heard my plea. Floating just above the Bank of America clock tower in front of me were ghostly apparitions of fog. I could feel a moist, snappy chill in the air, and as I rounded onto Folsom downtown-bound, I saw swaths of mist tumbling gently over the buildings to my left. In other words, the heat wave is moving out.
I may not have air-conditioning in my house, but San Francisco had turned on its own, and though the day is beautiful out right now, warm and a good reminder that it is, after all, summer in California, I will likely have a pleasantly-temperatured house waiting for me this evening when the fog inevitably rolls back over Twin Peaks and onto the City below.
After a few months of disappointment and something akin to buyer's remorse due to these imperfections, I woke from my stupor and recognized how I was letting a few flaws ruin what was (and is) an otherwise terrific home. In doing so, the noise from our upstairs neighbor dramatically decreased (or at least my awareness of it), and I barely give the busy street below our window much thought anymore. And after my bike was stolen from our secured garage, I have accepted it to be a hazard of living in an urban city and simply bought another one and keep it in the house.
I can't imagine living anywhere else, and I am proud of the home that Sam and I have made together. And in the spirit of my living gratefully for the year, I try not dwell on the small stuff. However, for argument's sake, if I had to think of one thing I'd change, it would be the temperature inside.
A selling point that the agent hammered into us repeatedly was the radiant heating mechanism under our floorboards. And I'm sure it will work spectacularly when we go to use it, but I could not say for sure since we have never had to fire it up. Our unit magically maintains a temperature about five or 10 degrees warmer than the weather outside, and given San Francisco's recent (and relative) heat wave for the last few days, our house has become something of a dry sauna in the late afternoons and evenings.
And this hits a particularly sensitive nerve with me because I have already lived, and hated living, in two dry saunas within the last decade. My first solitary apartment in college had huge west-facing windows. When I stayed in Davis for summer school one year, I never wanted to come home because I couldn't even sit still, much less study, without breaking into a sweat. I have never spent more time at libraries or coffee shops before or since.
Similarly, my hovel of an apartment in Oakland a few years ago was a 300-square foot oven that also faced the setting sun (I don't easily learn my lessons, apparently), but I could open the front door for a cross-breeze when necessary. Winter in this apartment, however, was a different story, one with drafty walls and a broken heater. That year, the Bay Area experienced one of the coldest winters in the history of cold, and I resorted to taking long, scalding showers and sleeping in a sweatshirt under three layers of blankets.
But I could tolerate it all because I was a poor, young renter. Now, I am still poor but arguably an adult, and I can no longer hop from apartment to apartment whenever the urge compels me, not with this noose-shaped mortgage around my neck. After three days of (again, relative) heat in the City, I couldn't help but appeal to the universe: Is it so much to ask that I have a comfortable, climate-controlled house to come home to?
This morning, as I coasted my bike out of our building and up 11th Street toward Market, I saw the first sign that the universe had indeed heard my plea. Floating just above the Bank of America clock tower in front of me were ghostly apparitions of fog. I could feel a moist, snappy chill in the air, and as I rounded onto Folsom downtown-bound, I saw swaths of mist tumbling gently over the buildings to my left. In other words, the heat wave is moving out.
I may not have air-conditioning in my house, but San Francisco had turned on its own, and though the day is beautiful out right now, warm and a good reminder that it is, after all, summer in California, I will likely have a pleasantly-temperatured house waiting for me this evening when the fog inevitably rolls back over Twin Peaks and onto the City below.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
7/5/2011 - sing. . .
I like to sing. This bit of confession should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever spent more than 10 minutes with me in a car. I find it impossible within my mortal capacity to resist the urge to belt along with whatever I hear on the radio, even if I can't stand the song itself. On the drive back from Vegas to San Francisco, my mom would later tell Sam that I sang the whole nine-plus hours home, and she did not exaggerate.
I sing along when I put music on at home, in the shower to whatever I have looping in my head, on my bike as I make my way to work on most mornings. Last year, I even sang at work, when I somehow got lassoed into singing a duet with Paula, my department's administrative assistant, during an 'all-team' meeting. "Endless Love," and I even let her be Diana Ross.
And of course, by "somehow lassoed," I really mean I volunteered when the VP of Marketing said she would like to put a little bit more entertainment into the meeting.
The song went OK. I know I've sung better, and I'm fairly certain I went a little 'pitchy' at parts, but I stayed in tune enough to get rousing applause afterwards and an excited Paula who couldn't stop talking about it for the next week.
This morning when I opened my Outlook, the first e-mail I saw had the following headline:
![]()
Paula, upon seeing me, immediately rushed over to my cubicle and said that she could not wait to sing with "her Lionel Richie" again. She already looked over the HR-approved list of karaoke songs (which inexplicably includes "Baby Got Back" and "Like a Virgin") and compiled a list of 20 songs she thought we could do together with a few numbers she could think of doing with no other person but me.
It's good to be wanted.
I sing along when I put music on at home, in the shower to whatever I have looping in my head, on my bike as I make my way to work on most mornings. Last year, I even sang at work, when I somehow got lassoed into singing a duet with Paula, my department's administrative assistant, during an 'all-team' meeting. "Endless Love," and I even let her be Diana Ross.
And of course, by "somehow lassoed," I really mean I volunteered when the VP of Marketing said she would like to put a little bit more entertainment into the meeting.
The song went OK. I know I've sung better, and I'm fairly certain I went a little 'pitchy' at parts, but I stayed in tune enough to get rousing applause afterwards and an excited Paula who couldn't stop talking about it for the next week.
This morning when I opened my Outlook, the first e-mail I saw had the following headline:
It's good to be wanted.
Monday, July 4, 2011
7/4/2011 - why America is great. . .
CNNMoney released a list of the 100 greatest things about America, and while the merits of this list are definitely debatable, #82 caught my attention: "Blogging - We're all writers now. Uh oh. . ."
Though I wouldn't think to put 'blogging' as one of America's best-loved features, I haven't actually thought too much about what I would put on this list.
If I were more politically savvy or had a better sense of history, I could probably come up with a whole thesis on why America is great and why I love living here, from the birth of this country to the incredible odds we've overcome. All that patriotic stuff I vaguely remember from junior high social studies classes--one nation under God; out of many, one; and various other things that are meant to remind us that we live in a prosperous and thriving nation, that diversity makes us so.
But I am politically selective in what I care about, and so am I with my memory of American history. So if I were to sit here and go on about the greatness of America because of the nature of our politics or the wonders of our economy or some other facet that relied on actual knowledge, this post would sound like a casserole of Wikipedia entries ('out of many, one' indeed) at best, a high school term paper written the night before its due date at worst.
What would go on this list, then, if I don't have politics and history to expound upon? I can't convincingly argue the beauty of democracy, nor the merits of capitalism, though I recognize the importance of their respective places in our country. I vote, though admittedly not on every issue or position listed on ballots. I am not certain I can tell you who all signed the Constitution, or the names of more than a handful of presidents, and I certainly couldn't go into any better than passing detail on a description of the Civil War.
But when I think of myself, a gay Asian man living in one of the most progressive cities in America, I recognize that I probably have little to nothing in common with the majority of the country save two things: my lack of knowledge on America itself, and that I can still think of myself proudly as nothing but an American.
So my list would be short, just one little item, that I am happy to be an American. A bad one, maybe, but nevertheless, one, and I wouldn't want to be anything or anywhere else.
Though I wouldn't think to put 'blogging' as one of America's best-loved features, I haven't actually thought too much about what I would put on this list.
If I were more politically savvy or had a better sense of history, I could probably come up with a whole thesis on why America is great and why I love living here, from the birth of this country to the incredible odds we've overcome. All that patriotic stuff I vaguely remember from junior high social studies classes--one nation under God; out of many, one; and various other things that are meant to remind us that we live in a prosperous and thriving nation, that diversity makes us so.
But I am politically selective in what I care about, and so am I with my memory of American history. So if I were to sit here and go on about the greatness of America because of the nature of our politics or the wonders of our economy or some other facet that relied on actual knowledge, this post would sound like a casserole of Wikipedia entries ('out of many, one' indeed) at best, a high school term paper written the night before its due date at worst.
What would go on this list, then, if I don't have politics and history to expound upon? I can't convincingly argue the beauty of democracy, nor the merits of capitalism, though I recognize the importance of their respective places in our country. I vote, though admittedly not on every issue or position listed on ballots. I am not certain I can tell you who all signed the Constitution, or the names of more than a handful of presidents, and I certainly couldn't go into any better than passing detail on a description of the Civil War.
But when I think of myself, a gay Asian man living in one of the most progressive cities in America, I recognize that I probably have little to nothing in common with the majority of the country save two things: my lack of knowledge on America itself, and that I can still think of myself proudly as nothing but an American.
So my list would be short, just one little item, that I am happy to be an American. A bad one, maybe, but nevertheless, one, and I wouldn't want to be anything or anywhere else.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
7/3/2011 - passion for liquor. . .
With Grr at home on quarantine, Sam and I have suddenly found ourselves with more time on our hands than we know what to do with. Where we used to come home from work and then head straight to the doggy trails after a quick costume change, Friday afternoon, I played God of War for an hour before heating up some leftover pizza for dinner. Where our weekend mornings were once occupied by beachside walks, I spent yesterday singing and writing and he on the couch, watching Rifleman reruns.
Not that I want Grr to stay sick, of course, but I will regretfully admit that I have enjoyed this unexpected bout of leisure we've found.
So, without the need to take Grr out (doctor's orders, after all), what better way would we have to spend a beautiful summer day than to drive out to Alameda and hole ourselves up in a hangar while drinking vodka at the source of its creation?
Though the experience did not make a drinker out of me, I did leave the building with a greater appreciation for the spirit. And Sam walked out with two bottles of vodka and whiskey, one of which he promptly opened in the parking lot and did a quick taste test for quality.
Not the worst Saturday afternoon for either of us.
Not that I want Grr to stay sick, of course, but I will regretfully admit that I have enjoyed this unexpected bout of leisure we've found.
So, without the need to take Grr out (doctor's orders, after all), what better way would we have to spend a beautiful summer day than to drive out to Alameda and hole ourselves up in a hangar while drinking vodka at the source of its creation?
Though I don't drink and find the taste of vodka to be exactly what I would expect (the juice of fermented potatoes), the distillation process, at least at St. George's Spirits, was fascinating and full of love. They personified the oft-used phrase, 'hand crafted,' and exuded an infectious passion for liquor. After a comprehensive tasting that allowed Sam to tour through the various flavors of the distillery (including a chipotle vodka that smelled like a garden patch but apparently felt like acid going down), we took a physical tour of the plant, walking by the various machines used to ferment the ingredients, distill the alcohol, infuse the flavors.
Though the experience did not make a drinker out of me, I did leave the building with a greater appreciation for the spirit. And Sam walked out with two bottles of vodka and whiskey, one of which he promptly opened in the parking lot and did a quick taste test for quality.
Not the worst Saturday afternoon for either of us.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
7/2/2011 - mother-of-the-year. . .
You know how people say that no matter how valiantly you fight it, inevitably, you will become your parents? Going on this logic, then, I always thought that I would inherently be a good dad, if only because of how well my parents took care of me.
My mom especially would break out her mother-of-the-year performances when I got sick, which happened often enough. From the initial onset of symptoms, it would be like I had somehow been transported to a virtual one-patient ICU. Hourly, my mom would feel my forehead for a fever, take my temperature for confirmation, bring me glasses of water and homemade chicken broth. Even at night, she would come to my room with cups of both and a roll of saltine crackers.
In fact, to this day, when I come down with a fever, I still sometimes smell the phantom wafts of chicken broth in the air, wake up halfway to the morning and wonder where my crackers are hiding.
But it turns out that I did not inherit this streak of parental care. Grr is sick. It started with a little bit of sniffling in the mornings, but has since developed into a mild case of an upper respiratory infection. And of course, upon hearing this diagnosis, I immediately thought of Sookie, the first pet Sam and I had adopted.
And yet I balked when Sam initially suggested that we take Grr to see the vet, like I didn't want to admit that he could be as sick as to warrant medical intervention. It didn't help that while Grr was sneezing and uncomfortable in the night, I (mostly) slept right through it while Sam sat up to rub his ears and whisper things to him. Sam drove him to the vet yesterday morning while I sat in my cubicle at work, not even considering the possibility that Grr might need a vet. Sam is, in fact, downstairs right now, periodically wiping Grr's nose while I sit in the closet, practicing songs for my upcoming a cappella concert and finishing this blog entry.
So I am not my parents, and not as good of one as I expected myself to be. What do I do, then, when I can't find in me the loving qualities that are needed to care for an ailing pet?
Love someone else who can.
My mom especially would break out her mother-of-the-year performances when I got sick, which happened often enough. From the initial onset of symptoms, it would be like I had somehow been transported to a virtual one-patient ICU. Hourly, my mom would feel my forehead for a fever, take my temperature for confirmation, bring me glasses of water and homemade chicken broth. Even at night, she would come to my room with cups of both and a roll of saltine crackers.
In fact, to this day, when I come down with a fever, I still sometimes smell the phantom wafts of chicken broth in the air, wake up halfway to the morning and wonder where my crackers are hiding.
But it turns out that I did not inherit this streak of parental care. Grr is sick. It started with a little bit of sniffling in the mornings, but has since developed into a mild case of an upper respiratory infection. And of course, upon hearing this diagnosis, I immediately thought of Sookie, the first pet Sam and I had adopted.
And yet I balked when Sam initially suggested that we take Grr to see the vet, like I didn't want to admit that he could be as sick as to warrant medical intervention. It didn't help that while Grr was sneezing and uncomfortable in the night, I (mostly) slept right through it while Sam sat up to rub his ears and whisper things to him. Sam drove him to the vet yesterday morning while I sat in my cubicle at work, not even considering the possibility that Grr might need a vet. Sam is, in fact, downstairs right now, periodically wiping Grr's nose while I sit in the closet, practicing songs for my upcoming a cappella concert and finishing this blog entry.
So I am not my parents, and not as good of one as I expected myself to be. What do I do, then, when I can't find in me the loving qualities that are needed to care for an ailing pet?
Love someone else who can.
Friday, July 1, 2011
7/1/2011 - all I've got. . .
I woke up this morning feeling angry at the world. It happens from time to time; sometimes, I know why, often I don't. Today's situation falls somewhere in the middle.
I know that it didn't help when I woke up hungry, stumbled down the stairs, poured my cereal, and opened the refrigerator to discover that we ran out of milk. I know that I can attribute the shift in my mood to a bad night of sleep, as Grr has a cold and could not get comfortable, as well as the string of (mostly work-related) bad days this week. I could also blame it on the abundance of moments throughout those days that have been neither bad nor good. Just abundant.
But whatever I choose as my scapegoat, none of those reasons are fitting fodder for a blog called "One Grateful Year."
And right when I thought I would have yet another day of writer's block, Sam sent me a text message midway through the afternoon, saying that he was near a Safeway and wanted to know what we are doing for dinner. "What do we have at home?" I asked.
"Two big slices of pizza and Klondike bars," he replied.
And I remembered how excited he was when I impulsively bought them a couple of days ago, so excited, in fact, that he immediately broke out into song when I got back into the car with them:
"What would you do-hoo-hoo / for a Klondike. . . you know, a lesbian from Alaska?"
I'm juvenile; I won't deny it. I should probably be at least somewhat disappointed in myself for finding this so funny, at the time and now. But really, some days, this is all I've got.
I know that it didn't help when I woke up hungry, stumbled down the stairs, poured my cereal, and opened the refrigerator to discover that we ran out of milk. I know that I can attribute the shift in my mood to a bad night of sleep, as Grr has a cold and could not get comfortable, as well as the string of (mostly work-related) bad days this week. I could also blame it on the abundance of moments throughout those days that have been neither bad nor good. Just abundant.
But whatever I choose as my scapegoat, none of those reasons are fitting fodder for a blog called "One Grateful Year."
And right when I thought I would have yet another day of writer's block, Sam sent me a text message midway through the afternoon, saying that he was near a Safeway and wanted to know what we are doing for dinner. "What do we have at home?" I asked.
"Two big slices of pizza and Klondike bars," he replied.
And I remembered how excited he was when I impulsively bought them a couple of days ago, so excited, in fact, that he immediately broke out into song when I got back into the car with them:
"What would you do-hoo-hoo / for a Klondike. . . you know, a lesbian from Alaska?"
I'm juvenile; I won't deny it. I should probably be at least somewhat disappointed in myself for finding this so funny, at the time and now. But really, some days, this is all I've got.
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