West of Mayberry

Two months.

I never intended to stay away so long.

But, it’s been a rough time this summer and I didn’t want to post unless it could be something positive.  There’s enough sadness and struggle in the world.  I don’t need to add my own to it.

But since today is the 6th Anniversary of my stepping into the world of blogging¹ , I thought I should at least put something up.

Many of you have sent e-mails asking about our little family: Granny, The Attorney, and me.

The Attorney and I are doing well, although we don’t see as much of each other these days.

And I am surviving.

I would like to be able to say that Granny is doing well and surviving, too.  But the reality is that is not the case.

Her health has taken a serious downturn over the summer.  She is still alive. But surviving? I’m not so sure.

What’s most troubling, beyond the crippling arthritis, recurring infection in her leg, and the occasional incontinence, is the decline in her mental state.  Moments of dementia have been happening for a few years now. But lately those moments have become constants. And the confusion and paranoia that come along with them have created a creature that rides a wave of emotions that race through a series of corkscrews, free falls, and loop the loops.

I’m riding shot gun with an all-access pass.

And I’ve never been much for roller coasters.  Real ones or metaphors.

It’s startling and sobering to see how a switch somewhere in the brain can change, in few weeks, the person it took you 93 years to become.

Consequently, I am rarely out of the house anymore.  So, I am the constant companion to someone who sometimes doesn’t realize who I am.

Not being able to go to a job everyday² and not being able to see The Attorney at least once a week³, had started to take a toll on me.

Until a dog named JoAnn.

A friend and his wife went on vacation a couple of weeks ago.  At the last minute they lost their dog sitter and asked me to take care of her.  My gut reaction was that I couldn’t handle a dog and an old woman both looking to me when they need to eat or shit, so I was inclined to say no.

I’ve wanted a dog of my own for years but always told myself that I would have to wait until I didn’t have Granny to worry about.  But, I felt sorry for my friends and I want to help out anyone I can.  So, I figured I could deal with it for a week and a half.

Plus, with Granny always cranky and The Attorney always an hour and half away, it would be nice to get some much needed affection from somewhere.

Naturally, the dog couldn’t care less about me.

But, she loves my Granny, this dog name JoAnn. ⁴

Because she is still young and playful, I was really concerned that the dog would jump on Granny or just be too physical in general.  But instead, she calmly lays her head in Granny’s lap to be petted.

Her head won’t reach Granny’s lap if she sits.

And so she stands.

For hours.

And Granny pets her.

For hours.

Instinctively, she’s made it her job to look after Granny.

She sleeps outside Granny’s bedroom door at night and when she hears Granny stirring to get out of bed in the morning, she comes to me.  She stares at me until I follow her and then she does this herding thing where she leads me then circles me again and again until we reach Granny’s door.

The dog is calm.  And Granny is calm.

So much so, I’ve asked my friends to let me keep her for a while.

They agreed it’s probably good for Granny.

And I think JoAnn agrees.  Last night while she was standing at Granny’s chair, offering a fuzzy head to pet, she turned her eyes over to me and let out a big sigh.

I thought, “I know, JoAnn.  I know.  Just keep standing.”

And so she does.

As do I.

Thanks to a dog named JoAnn.

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1. with my old blog [↩]
2. But my boss was kind enough offer me some administrative and sales work that I can do from home. [↩]
3. Granny doesn’t want anyone to see her. [↩]
4. Silly name. My friends let their three year old niece name the dog. [↩]

I know the number is correct.

But it doesn’t sound correct when I say it out loud.

“35.”

I just don’t think of myself as 35.

But, I am now.

35.

I started to say that I don’t feel 35.

But  then I thought about people who say things like, “I don’t feel (insert age).”

How do they know?

They have never been that age before, so how do they know what it’s supposed to feel like?

And whatever the age, it must feel different for everybody.

So, maybe how I feel is how 35 feels.

My 35.

I would have thought this is more what 28 feels like.

That was 7 years ago, so I don’t specifically remember how it felt. But, I don’t recall it feeling much different than now.

I’m still healthy (maybe more so) and happy (absolutely more so) and definitely more sure of who I am.

So maybe 35 is just a better shade of 28.

That sounds correct.

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So, I’ve had that poll over in the sidebar for a while now.  I closed it recently, but for about 3 months or so many of you gave your input.

Not surprisingly, “the package” is, by far, the place on a guy that most of you eye-ball first.  I mean, the genitals are central to sexuality.  The dick is what makes us, at the most basic level, men.¹ And  of you like men…well, there you have it.

The “ass” came in second.  It would have been the top choice on my ballot.

Since we’re just talking about looking.

When it comes to looking and touching, I’m thinking I’m more of a tit man.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love having my mitts full of a nice piece of tail.  But if I was to keep a tally, I’d say I’m copping a feel on The Attorney’s milk bags more often than his buns.

Of course, it depends on what we’re doing.  For example, when we are standing and kissing, I generally start with his backside.  But it doesn’t take long for one hand to slip under or inside his shirt.

When we spoon, I always have an arm around him with a firm grip on his opposite pec.

Same thing if I come up from behind for a sneak-attack snuggle. Whether it’s arms up around the neck and shoulders, or down under the armpits and around the lats, my digits are going after the sweater meat.

Although it’s something I’ve really just become aware of, I have come to realize it’s not a new trait in me.

It’s not a result of having a boyfriend with a great chest.

Thinking back, I was that way when I was young and messing around with girls.  All my girlfriends had big tits.

So, maybe having a boyfriend with a great chest is a result of my fetish.

Would I think so much of the Attorney if he was as flat-chested as me? ²

I’m sure I would.  No doubt.

He and I are about so much more than his chest.

But I’m not complaining about his ritual pre-bedtime push-ups either.

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1. Please, no debates about transgendered. [↩]
2. Thank goodness, I am.  I have enough trouble keeping my hands off of part of me as it is. [↩]

When I saw this picture, I imagined that he had just turned to me standing behind him and said, “What do you say we have a pash¹ right here on the rooftops, mate?”

Oh, and the answer would be yes! ²

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1. I learned that word from Brenton [↩]
2. you should see THAT picture. [↩]

Kelly¹ at Ramblin’ Along In Life started a little tradition a few years ago of having fellow bloggers post the above picture and each of us tell our own story of pride.

For a lot of people, that has meant stories of coming out.

I never had a defining coming out moment.

There are folks in some areas of my life who know about me and there are folks in some other areas who don’t. More know than not.  And even more know as time passes.

I’ve always sort of dealt with my sexuality on a “need to know” basis.

I’m sure that by some standards, that makes me still closeted.

Maybe so.

But, at the same time, if someone was to ask me, I wouldn’t deny it.

It’s kind of how I am about my exhibitionist nature.  I’m not going to just toss it in your face, but if I know you’re trying to get a peek, I’ll let you.

Some would say that that’s not taking pride.

Not true.

It’s just who I am and how I am.  And I’m comfortable with it.

To me, that’s what Pride is about: knowing who you are and being comfortable with it.

It isn’t so much about demanding acceptance by others.

It’s self-acceptance.

That’s true acceptance.

And how it manifests itself is as different as each of us are as individuals.

My life experience is not your life experience, nor is your life experience any one else’s.

But none is more valid than the others.

In that, you can take pride.

I do.

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1. who has very sexy legs [↩]