Living Proof

Non-coincidently, this story also took place in October. It was the year 2002, and my girlfriend and I went to go to this bed and breakfast in Windham, NY. The foliage was just gorgeous and it was the perfect time to escape the busyness of the city. We only planned to go for the weekend, so we left on Friday morning and got there by mid-afternoon. The bed & breakfast was this ‘gay friendly’ establishment that encouraged people of all kinds to visit. This nice lady and her life partner owned it. When we drove up to the house, it was this beautiful and charming white colonial, with black shutters. There was a candle lit in every window which gave it a warm feeling. It was overcast that day, a little darker outside than usual. When we got out of the car, we noticed that there were men working on one part of the house to add on another addition. (This was a detail they failed to mention.) Madelene and I walked into the home, and we were greeted by the owner’s entire family. They all in...

In October of 1987, I met a girl named Cheryl in school. We rode the bus together when I lived in upstate New York. We had a lot of the same interests. We had four wheel motorcycles, traveled through the Appalachian trails and hung out with the same friends. We always gravitated to the nearby firehouse parking lot to play kickball with the other kids. She always invited me over, but her house was up the road on top of this huge hill. It looked spooky. One day I took her up on her offer. She invited me to come over after school. I could get off the bus with her instead of my usual stop. My mother kept begging me not to go there. I didn’t know why she didn’t like Cheryl, but she kept saying, “It’s not that I don’t like her, just don’t go there!” I never knew why my mother kept insisting me not to visit my friend. Curiosity got the best of me of course, and I ended up getting off at her stop. I remember looking straight up at a desolate hill full of overgrown grass that probably has never...

It’s always nice when your parents think of you. It’s great when they get you little trinkets of whatever- just because they thought of you. Well, in my case, it’s like a bomb exploded. My father seems to go overboard with little trinkets, and buys the whole warehouse full of whatever it is, so he doesn’t run out. I mean, you can literally back a truck up to the house and poor all the little knickknacks inside. “Deb! Look wha I gotchya!” I come running over, noticing there were these really cool tiny lights that shine a tint of purple—like those new Mercedes do. I use it to read a menu in a restaurant or bar when it’s too dark inside. Great! Well he bought 500 of them. “Get dat’ ding’ right dare’!” It was a box lying in the back of his pick up. I grabbed it and brought it inside. When I opened it, I noticed he bought the entire stock of those flashlights that need no batteries. You literally have to shake them up and down until you’re out of breath. How long does the light last for,...

To think that my worst fear has come to reality. I ran out of Purell hand sanitizer. There’s no turning back, except for that trip to the drug store to purchase more. My friend advises me I should stock up on the BJ family size—which is the size of a keg of beer. I’m not that obsessed, but I’m getting there. I keep trying to squeeze out the last drops of remaining Purell that was stuck to the sides of the bottle. *Spsssssssssssss! Spsssssssssss!* is all that you hear coming from my office. *Spsssssssssssss! Spsssssssssss!* again, trying to make sure there’s absolutely none left. OCD isn’t just trying to be pathetically clean all the time. It’s other things as well. For instance, what do you think of someone who’s super super superstitious? Think about it. “Step on a crack, break your mama’s back.” (Those of you who have sent the movie, “ As Good as It Gets ”, shows Jack Nicholson hopping through sidewalks, avoiding any crack to be seen. When he sees a cobblestone sid...

There are definitely stereotypes to being a Christian, as well as stereotypes for being a homosexual. First of all, for the ‘typical Christian church-going individual’, you have this image of a married woman or man, who’s living the American dream. A nice big house with a white picket fence, a few kids and probably a dog and a cat. It’s a nice image actually. Is it perfect for everyone? No. Each person sets their goals and dreams differently to what they truly want out of life. Some don’t reach their goal, and some do. The stereotypes for the homosexual are simple. They seem to set the stage for promiscuity. This goes for all homosexuals, in the ‘extreme Christian’s’ view. We’re all different. Even heterosexuals can be promiscuous, as well as Church goers. Relationships and a loving union are much different than a person being promiscuous. The other day, I was going through a bout of depression. I thought, “So many people think I’m weak in faith, because I love someone of the same gend...

Late nights staying up talking on the phone, you always had this talent to put my heart at ease. You anticipated the worst, not expecting me to laugh, but you somehow put that smile back on my face—making me giggle. Your clichés were endless. I used to call you on them, telling you, “STOP ALREADY!!!” But, I honestly loved every single corny cliché that came out of your mouth. It made me laugh, and it also made sense to every situation we were going through. You always sensed when I was down. You would come over with a handful of gifts. The thoughtfulness was overwhelming. Did I even deserve this? You brought me over a bottle of wine or a bouquet of Heinekens. How adorable was that? I never knew they made bouquets of beer! You knew I loved truffles. You made sure I had my stock of them. Cards, poems and little sentimental trinkets are still saved. The crystal owl still sits on my dresser. You knew that I had an obsession with owls and went out of your way to get that for me. Countless...

As most of you know, my love for alcohol goes way beyond the limits of moderation. It’s not my fault, it’s my parents. Yes, I’m blaming everything on my parents. My psychiatrist said so. Growing up in my Italian household, we always had red table wine with dinner, and scotch and brandy to relieve pain that any good dose of ibuprofen couldn’t handle. Tooth ache? Take a shot of scotch! Period cramps? Take a shot of brandy! Gas pain? Drink some beer to get the bubbles out of your chest! Feeling down? Have a martini to lift your ‘spirits’. Now granted, I wasn’t allowed to drink during my teen years, however sneaking booze in my bedroom had become a fine art. I mastered the tip-toeing through the tulips over to the dry bar-- raiding any booze I could dowse into my iced-tea. I usually had one of my best friends waiting in my bedroom to join me. Who wants to drink alone? One night, my two friends came over. We were fifteen years old at the time. We got a hold of a six pack of beer and a few o...