The more things change . . .

We at the GayWay (and that is the preferred shorthand) love Liberty Frozen Custard (but I'm not including a link until they get their website under control; it's a mess) just as much as we did when we were young and dumb and Going40. However.

We do not love it on a Friday night as a toddler birthday party is coming to an overstimulated, tantrum-inducing end. I'm afraid this brings us to GayWay Gentle Admonition Eins. To all Permissive Mothers of the Modern Era (this excludes all mothers I know personally, as they are perfect in every way): Use some common sense. What did you expect to have happen at 8:00pm as you handed yet more candy to three-year-olds? Your children are not the only ones in the restaurant/theater/park/public place. And no, you don't get a free pass for bad behavior just because you chose to procreate. And as long as we're on the subject, you know that haircut that 93 percent of you have? The one that's kind of short, kind of flippy, kind of shaggy, kind of asymmetrical, and was cute for about ten minutes in 2005? We're done with that now, and can move on. If you need a new idea, I will find out who cuts the hair of MK and SM of Longfellow 'hood, because they are currently the two most stylish mothers I know.

Huh. And here I was worried that if I started a new blog I wouldn't have anything to say.

As practical as can be

When I was much younger (seriously, I once was), I almost bought a cabin. This was in those halcyon days of the mid-1990s, when I was making almost nothing. As opposed to today, when I am making almost nothing. There were a few good years in between. Anyhoo, this cabin was up by Willmar, a rundown A-frame on seven wooded acres, with a wildlife-filled marsh and many bugs. I was absolutely smitten. And it was $24,000; my mortgage would be $220 per month. After signing the purchase agreement, I set about doing what any self-respecting cabin owner would do: I began to acquire those elements essential to making this rustic building livable. A sump pump? I don't even know what that is. Traps? God no; I would be one with the earth and all its creatures.



I bought fabric. My friend Kevin and I went to Mill End Textiles and I bought armloads of wildly-patterned fabric. I would have pillows and curtains and cushions and tablecloths and duvet covers. Friends would drive up from the city and I would serve them lemonade from canning jars whilst cavorting under a canvas umbrella I had stitched myself. Country Living would feature my little haven in its Guess Where's the Midwest issue.


The sellers pulled out before a few weeks before closing. I was devastated, then relieved, because at the time $220 was some good money. It still is, though I seriously wanted sunglasses last week that were $285 (hey, they were pretty, and I thought they would add interest to my face).


I—this time not by myself but with my long-suffering love—will have a country home someday. And whenever I see a pile of quirky vintage fabric, I wonder how it will look as pillows, brought down to the dock on a lazy summer afternoon.

Shall we dance?

Why, hello little flock! How you must have missed me. I feel the same way: the Internets have glowed a little dimmer without our witty banter. Facebook is fine for letting us know Which Fairy Godmother Are We, and whether Shelby Lynn is totes citers for the Wham! reunion concert at Mystic Lake, but for in-depth, citation-laden discourse, we need us a blog.

Not convinced? For you naysayers, let me anticipate your grousing: I mean, really, didn't we read on and on and on about me for ages? Yes you did, and God love you for it. And I too really hate blogs that begin with some version of "These are just my random musings about life and love. But—

There is nothing. random. about. me.

What I have learned about writing—blogging, specifically—the last couple years, is that it provides me with a focus for thoughts that otherwise take up too much space in a brain that needs to remain oiled and ready for more important things. And, it turns out, several people (possibly 1 in 5 of those who claim to know me) enjoy, if not what I have to say, then at least how I say it. So here I am.

The gay way, in this case, simply means my way. I am quite a particular being, and have particular thoughts about most everything. I don't say that to elicit a knowing nod or chuckle; I am dead serious. I don't walk down the street without noticing every house, each yard, every person, each tree. As I take note, I do a quick mental makeover of that which I find distressing. Not to make the house or tree something it's not, but to make it, in my estimation, the best it can be given its special little place in the world. I don't really even think about this exercise anymore; I've been like this since I was a kid, plaid pants and all (and there was a LOT of plaid—when I succeed at being thin as a rail sometime this winter I'm getting new plaid pants). My thoughts aren't better or more profound than your thoughts, my judgments aren't somehow more correct . . . oh, who are we kidding. Of course they are! That's why you're reading.

But I am more than just another altruist, a run-of-the-mill do-gooder. As much as I give, I have needs too, and I need order out of chaos, people. When I was in school, oh-so-many-months ago, I could bring clarity to the conflicting elements of my life by sharing them with you. This summer, though, I'm a bit unmoored: college years are behind me, I have some job leads but nothing solid, grad school plans are s-l-o-w-l-y coming into focus. I have several writing projects that are in nascent stages, and they need this blog, too. Because when I blog, I meet up with all of you, and our relationship inspires me a great deal.

I intend for us to be a bit topical here, to take a position, explain an experience, search for an answer, shine a light on some small cultural lunacy. And it will be the gay way—the way that is honed by all the talented, peculiar, smart, funny, quirky people with whom I relate—along which we'll tread. Or skip. Or, if we're feeling particularly flexible, dance en pointe.

Shall we?