Las Vegas. *blech*

We have now left Las Vegas. I couldn't be happier.

Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the time I spent with my brother and my mom. Mostly. Well, all of the time with my brother. I was prolly a bit too apprehensive about my mom's reaction to Brit Boy to enjoy all of the time I spent with her. So there you go.

This was my first trip to Vegas. And while I won't say that it will be my last, I'm not sure that I'll be rushing back there any time soon. "Why?" you might ask. "Oh, the humanity," would be my response.

The Vegas Strip. It's... cute. Glittzy. Flashy. And has no more substance to it than a grain of displaced sand in the former desert that is Las Vegas. The throngs of people going to and fro. The massive traffic jam that is the strip. The sheer idiocy of the people wandering with no comprehension of other people around them. The... I think I might actually be at a loss for words.

However, Las Vegas did have one redeeming place. And that was actually Las Vegas. The old Las Vegas. See, The Strip, other than one major casino, isn't actually located in Las Vegas. It's located in "unincorporated Clark County." It was the old Las Vegas that I kinda liked. It had a more local feel. There were still lots of people (but not as many), there was still traffic (but not the parking lot that is Las Vegas Blvd), and there were some idiots out wandering around. But for the most part, it was comfortable. Sure, there were the lights, the sounds of the slot machines, bad carpeting, and tacky displays of consumption. However, it was just a little less... in your face. Just a little. And I liked that.

and breathe...

Brit Boy has now met my mother. And my mother has now met Brit Boy. Red mohawk and all. My mother's acknowledgment of the fact that I was bringing someone to the family Christmas gathering was... well... nonexistent. I talked about it. I explicitly said I was bringing someone. I continued to talk about Brit Boy and all the things we were doing. Her response?

*crickets chirping*

Yeah, there was nothing. So, when we arrived at the Las Vegas airport on Christmas Eve and met up with my brother and my mother, I was a little apprehensive. As was Brit Boy. My mom was polite. She was cordial. A good Southern woman. When we got to the hotel and the desk clerk was talking about "yes, we have you in a king non-smoking room..." she didn't bat an eye. Where was the woman that has been subtly and not so subtly been telling me for the past 13 years that I'm not really gay? That I'm just waiting for the right woman. That I need to settle down and have children. With a woman.

Well, I'm sure she was there somewhere, just not on the surface.

We dropped my mother off at the airport earlier today. She turned to my brother, "You need to come visit. Yes, come in February or March." She turned to me, "And you too... come to visit, come to see me." And then she turned to Brit Boy. "And you too, you can come and visit too."

My jaw almost hit the floor. Well, sometimes it just takes being actually confronted with something to make you recognize it. Or maybe I'll have an earful on the next phone conversation after the holidays. We shall see.

New boyfriend

Well, it was just a matter of time, really. Things change as time goes by, and in this area of life of my life, there is no exception. It looks like I have a new boyfriend. And to be honest, it looks like Brit Boy does too. Actually, it looks like we've been adopted as such by the same guy.

We recently ventured up to Dallas to go to a show of some electronic music that Brit Boy was really excited about seeing. Psy-Trance or something like that. So, up we went with Silly Girl and her boy to see a show. Now, while the show turned out to be frequently mostly by candy-ravers, in all their glory with pacifiers, glow sticks, and dust masks filled with Vick's Vap-o-rub, it was actually a really good show. I even danced. Quite a bit, actually. Brit Boy commented that he's never seen me dance that much. Not even when we're at Burning Man, which is normally the only time I'll allow myself to dance in the U.S. Cuz, as I've said previously, the music here pretty much sucks.

N-E-way... somewhere along the way we met up with Davie**, an 18 year-old kid from a small town just outside of Dallas. At first he was looking for directions to the club where the show was being held. Then, after I had txt'd him to make sure he found the place (I am a nice guy, FYI), we kept running into one another. He was always rather insistent that we "hang" with him for a while. It was all fine... the four of us were having a grand time, but didn't really know anyone else at the show.

Then, he realized that Brit Boy and I are a gay couple.

"Whoa, Cary and Brit Boy are gay?!?! Really?" I heard him exclaim at one point. "But they're so cool!"

Apparently Davie was a bit of a homophobe. He even admitted as much to me. "Cary, you're so cool. I mean, I've always been a total homophobe, but you and Brit Boy are like the coolest people I know." (Sidenote: Well, yes. We are.)

Such discussions continued for most of the evening. Davie was continually amazed at Brit Boy and me. How non-threatening we were. How much fun we were to be around. At the end of the evening, he didn't want for us to go. It was so cute. Like we had found a lost puppy that didn't want to go back to its owner.

The next morning, he started texting that he missed us already. It was so cute. He has even called me up to invite us to another show in Dallas over New Year's Eve, and offered to split the cost of gas for us to drive up from Austin. To say he was disappointed that we had plans to be in San Francisco, CA, over NYE is an understatement. Again... so cute.

So it looks like Brit Boy and I have a new boyfriend. He's ever so nice? Can we keep him? I'll just tuck him away in my pocket.

And you shall be known as...

I've been offered to have a first-born child after me. On a couple of conditions.

See, Brit Boy is, well, British. And as such, he knows other people that are British. Funny how that works out, isn't it? And to really pull this full circle, they have British accents. I know this is totally blowing your mind, but stay with me.

Well, a was chatting with a friend at the Capitol who apparently had no idea that my boyfriend was of the British persuasion. She got really excited about this because of his familiarity and friendship with other people of the British persuasion.

"So he knows guys with British accents?"

"Yes."

"Black guys? That are available?"

"I think so."

"OHMYGOD!!! That is the sexiest thing ever! If you could set something up, I'll name my first-born after you, boy or girl."

Really? That's all I have to do? No requirement that I perform miracles, feed the hungry, listen to George Bush speak, or help the homeless? Wow, I think I'm getting off easy.

So mature...

I posted previously about my tiny bit of OCD when it comes to folding towels. Brit Boy read my post. He was less than amused. Well, he was slightly amused. Maybe. Possibly. I think there was a hint of a smile on his face when he told me where I could put my properly folded towels.

So in response to me basically saying that I didn't like the way he folded our towels, he responded in the most mature, well-reasoned, and thoughtful way anyone can.

By basically going "pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt!!!!"

Is there any question as to why I love him so?

But it's only wafer thin!

Everyone has fears. Some are logical and totally understandable. Others are rather irrational and, well, silly. Mine falls into this latter category.

Sidewalk grates. I'm afraid of sidewalk grates. You know, those flimsy pieces of metal that cover deep chasms of underground tunnels, pipes, and all the creepy-crawly things that live down there. Those flimsy pieces of metal that could snap at any moment, plunging the passerby deep below the surface of the Earth. I shudder every time I even think about walking over one. So I don't. Walk over them, that is. I avoid them at all costs.

Last night, however, was my worst nightmare. There's a particular stretch of roadway in downtown Austin that due to the construction on the street and the sidewalk that connects to the pedestrian/cycling bridge, I was forced onto the sidewalk in front of City Hall for half a block. This half of the block, however, contains a 20-something foot expanse of sidewalk grates. A 20-something foot expanse of sidewalk grates that I was forced to ride across as there were other people on the sidewalk. A 20-something foot expanse of sidewalk grates that threatened to buckled and fail as the tires of my bike rolled from one grate to the next. A 20-something foot expanse of sidewalk grates...

"Just keep pedaling, just keep pedaling, just keep pedaling..." I kept singing to myself. "What do we do, we pedal, we pedal... just keep pedaling..."

After what seemed like an eon... After what seemed like 600 miles of sidewalk grates... I finally got to the end and was able to make my way home. It took at least a mile or two for my apprehensiveness to subside.

Toweling Off

Brit Boy and I are entering our third month of cohabitation. All seems to be going swimmingly. We're goofy, silly, happy, cuddly, etc, etc. He's getting out and making friends and exploring Austin, and we seem to be settling in nicely. Except...

Towels. Now, there may not be too many things about which I am a stickler, but the way the towels in the linen closet are folded is one of them. I mean, when they're folded all nice and neat, it just looks so nice when you open the door to grab one. Well, apparently not everyone agrees with my philosophy.

I opened the linen closet the other day to grab a towel to take to the gym. This is what I found staring back at me.

Well, I just couldn't have any of this. Order had to be restored.

Much better, no?

Help, help! I'm being repressed!

My aunt and uncle have arrived to take over the care-taking of my mother while she recovers. It's nice to see them, as it's been... I couldn't even tell you how long it's been since I've spent some time with them.

However...

I am now in a house filled with McCain/Palin supporters who espouse the Republican Party's talking points on why McCain/Palin are the only ones that can handle the country and that Obama is a socialist and a terrorist. Yes, with one breath they are saying that he's a socialist working to build up the power of the state, and with the other they say he'll destroy the country. They've now gone so far as to turn on the McCain/Palin propoganda machine... Faux News.

"There's no place like home..." *click* "There's no place like home..." *click* "There's no place like home..." *click*

Recipe for a family.

One of the missions my brother charged me with while I'm up at mom's is to find our dad's chili recipe. This has been no easy task. Both yesterday and a good portion of today has been spent searching through cabinets, boxes, and trunks for old recipe books and boxes. And then proceeding to sift through these books page by page due to the fact that my family likes to simply stuff recipes into books just willy-nilly.

My mom and I were sitting at the dining room table earlier today doing just this when I commented on my own recipe organization. I print out recipes on their own 8 1/2" x 11" sheet of paper, insert it in a plastic sleeve and then keep these sleeves in 3-ring binders. I have different binders for different things. Sweets (which is my most full binder), entrees, specialty drinks, and so on. My mom seemed rather impressed by this.

"Well," she started, "since you're so organized with this is sounds like its time for you to start a family."

Ummm... What?!?!? So I pressed the issue. "Umm, how does me having good recipe organization equate to me needing to start a family?"

"Well, it just says that you're at a point in your life that you're ready for the next step."

"And the next step, of course, is for me to start a family?" I inquire.

"Yes," she said simply and continued sorting through recipe after recipe.

Ummm.... well.... ok...?

It's a good thing she's pretty.

My mom's cat is a bitch. A cute, loving, demanding little bitch.

When I arose this morning to make my mom her breakfast, it wasn't long until her loving little Hop-a-Long (the cat only has three legs) came to join me in the kitchen. At first she sat quietly by my feet as I cut up a cantaloupe. When I didn't realize that this meant she needed to be fed, she made her displeasure known rather loudly. Fine, alright. Cat's like to meow when they want something. No big deal.

After eating her fill (which was really only about two bites) she ran over to the basement door and started scratching to her hearts content. "I want to play in the basement," her eyes said to me. Fine. I'll open the basement door for you. She ran down the stairs and I could hear her just tearing around down there. For only having three legs, this little fireball sure does get around.

At some point, she quietly reentered the kitchen and went about trying to look out the floor length windows that overlooked the backyard. She was thwarted, however, by the fact that I had yet to raise the blinds. Determined, she let her intentions be known by pawing, head-butting, and then simply sticking her nose through the blinds. At first I was simply amused, but then the clanging of the blinds was too much. "Fine," I exclaimed. "I'll open the damn blinds."

Apparently this cat has a set routine and doesn't like for it to be changed.

Umm... did I just write a blog posting about a cat? Damn... I need to get home to Brit Boy soon.