Stuff That Makes A Gay Heart Weep

THE MEAN GURL CLICK

 
"Stop trying to get me to FollowFriday you, Gretchen; it's not going to happen."

Benjamin Kissell

 

What makes a gay heart weep 5th sense levels of Amanda Seyfried tears [how LAME it is to make Mean Girls jokes?] or Heather Duke-esque crocodile tears [how OLD a Heathers joke makes me?] is realizing that social media is totally High School: Part Deaux.

 

Think about it.

 

I mean it, really.

 

Think about it.

 

When Myspace was trendy [you know, cro magnon days] if you weren't in someone's Top 8, 12 or 64 [they offered so many options to snub] you may as well not even have a page. Of course, the more socially mature folks wouldn't bat an eyelash at this. I? Am so not mature. 

 

I'm a bit neurotic.

 

Example: While standing in line for her 2008 Such a Pretty Fat Tour I caused Jen Lancaster to snort in laughter because the 2 perky girls ahead of me squealed when they realized I was "that BEN" in her Top 8.

 

I wish I'd had the adult sensibility to just let it pass unremarked.

 

I was not.

 

Jen of course signed the book "For Ben, who is totally in my top 8" (with grins plastered on both our faces). 

 

I was in the Cool Kids Club. I was a Heather. I was totally top 8 material.

 

Sweet.

 

Then myspace became the next-big-thing-to-be-passe. [Damn]

 

Enter the era of Facebook supremacy [member since 2004 when it was just for college kids. YO.] and all of the ridiculous keys and styles "inspired" by Myspace over the last 5 years. It's a tad ... well, ridiculous.

 

From their popularity games [I have not/am not/nor will not be interested in Farmvile. Okay? Thanks] to the feeding-into-neuroses "Like" button, "Connections" and "Facebook Recommends" links, Facebook is one giant high school. Complete with populars, geeks and bullies.

 

And bless your heart if you aren't in the right clicque - or the right "click".

 

Top this off with Tumblr [aside from finding some great dirty photos, what's the point?], Google+ [plus what? I wish I could knock it, but I don't know squat about it] and - my major addiction - Twitter, you have a recipe for a truly Mean Gurls Click.

 

"What's your damage Heather?"
"Well, I made a Lindsay Lohan joke last night and lost 400 Twitter-followers."
"Was it in poor taste?" "Uhm, it's Lindsay Lohan."
"Good point."

 

I hate to say it, but, the number of followers (and ratio of followers to following) seems to carry a lot of weight. Again, wish I could say that I have the self-awareness and maturity to declare that this doesn't bother me. I really do.

 

But, apparently - say it with me - I don't.

 

The old I-wasn't-popular-until-Junior-Year-and-was-picked-on-a-LOT-as-a-kid insecurities reared their head recently and I asked my followers to promote me in that atrocious of atrocities: Follow Friday.

 

Tho' the times I've been a Follow Friday recommendation without hounding someone into it? Well, I may've done a victory dance [complete with Madonna-backing-vocals]. Maybe. 

 

Twitter is like that verbal diarrhea you get in school; when every thought comes pouring out of your mouth because the cool kids are paying attention to you. You extoll the virtues of the VERY boring meal you just ate [yawn] or you rant about the merest minutiae of your daily life [guilty].

 

My friend (the beautiful and talented novelist and screenwriter) Caprice Crane pointed out, in a recent conversation we had, that she really only uses Twitter to post observational humor or to make jokes about whatever pop culture headline is ripe for the picking.

 

Translation: she doesn't stoop to the Mean Gurl Click mentality. Caprice has class.

  

Alas, I don't have her self-control or confidence [or looks, wit, breding or ... well, the list can go on for days]. Self-censoring has never been my forte. More than once my best friend has said I need an editor for daily conversations.

 

[Apparently TMI isn't always a great place to take conversations in public. Who knew?] 

 

In fact, more than a few of my tweets have been just-shy of assclap-level Mean Gurl.

 

 

[Think more Winona Ryder in Heathers, less Shannen Doherty]

 

Like high school clicques, it's a game you play (or don't).

 

Play it on your own terms. Be aware that our lives are fodder for pages in a digital Burn Book the Heathers compile.

 

Watch out you don't become one.

 

"Remember that it's totally okay not to be in the popular click online.
And it's okay when your BFF has your ex in his Google+ 'hook-up' circle
... but, FETCH. WILL. NEVER. HAPPEN."

CRINGE AND BARE IT [ALL]

 

Body By Jake ... Ass By Betty Crocker ... Body Image Issues by Our Culture.

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

What makes a gay heart weep like Rick Santorum in a Chocolate Factory [hell, even a Cheesecake Factory, ‘cos you know that closet-queen has some food issues]? Why, it’s realizing that you're sprouting chins like a teenager grows zits.

 

A true cringe-worthy moment.

 

Definitely diet time. And I swear, this has nothing [read: everything] to do with my impending 29th birthday this July and my first trip to the beach since 1996.

 

I promise.

 

Well, I soft-guarantee?

 

The other day I had to buy my first pair of "fat jeans" [size 33] since I successfully took off the weight in 2007. When I couldn't get the size 32s past my thighs [which canNOT stay seperated these days, fyi] I knew it was time.

 

The icing on the cake? Getting a LOVELY post-card from Just For Men with a FREE OFFER to help me get the grey away ... this may have sent me running.

 

Well, jogging.

 

Okay, fast walking.

 

For the first time in almost 2 years, I turned back to exercise. To say that it was a cake walk would be a misnomer [mmmm, cake - can I make it double-fudge with chocolate icing?] but, I strapped on my mp3 player and blasted Madonna's new album, MDNA, and took myself out into the night. 

 

.........................................

 

Seriously, I had quite forgotten how difficult it was to stick to a comprehensive and effective regimen of diet and exercise. The exercise part's not that hard, but the diet? Oh diets, how I want to quit thee.

It's easy to tell yourself “Benjamin, today you are going to eat three sensible medium meals and 2 small snacks; when you get up and go to bed you are going to do your exercises.”, but actually doing that?Bugger.

 

1. Getting out of bed and setting foot outside of my nice warm blankets [one of which is faux beaver fur] is NOT pleasant nor something that I particularly relish. And this? This makes it difficult to do my morning exercises

 

2. Doing morning exercises (usually stretches and mild cardio in my room to Madonna or Cher [remember this is Stuff That Makes a GAY Heart Weep]) is tough when I am curled up underneath the covers wondering how quickly I can throw on house shoes and run into the kitchen for some hot coffee and back into bed where I can nurse it while watching the Today Show [What can I say, that 4th hour? When I get to catch it ... Kathie Lee does love her bottles of 'coffee'] and Lifetime's reruns of The New Adventures of Old Christine.

 

“Y’know, that’s a very good look on you: it’s ‘come hither, 
I’m wearing something under-sized and machine washable in-case I get so plastered I vomit on myself’.”
"Thanks, I got it out of your closet."

 

 

3. The whole eating right thing: eating 3 smaller meals a day and 2 small/sane portion snacks? Let’s just say, that I’m not known for my tendency to eat and nibble throughout the day.

 

I have a tendency to skip [unless chugging a large cup or three of dark, plain black coffee counts as eating] breakfast and then head into work where I will grab a lunch of a Subway “lite” for good measure.  By now, the lovely Arabic girl who works there knows my order by rote; Tuna on flatbread with spinach, green peppers and cucumbers.

 

By the time work is over, and I get home … cooking a lite dinner isn’t exactly what springs to mind, and I just buy some chicken nuggets at McD's.

 

#DietFAIL

 

Okay, I admit it! There is a reason it's called convenience food. Me not standing over a stove making it makes it automatically fantastic to me.

 

4. After letting dinner digest by sitting on my arse working on the computer [answering e-mails, talking on facebook, tweeting and writing], I'm pretty beat. By the time that I'm ready to call it quits, I just wanna crawl back into bed – not get over onto the mat I keep on the floor in the middle of my room for exercising.  But, unless I lose out to my laziness, I drag myself over, put some Madonna on and do my evening toning exercises.

 

Then, drag myself back under my covers and drift off to sleep … only to be awakened by the alarm way too damn early in the morning *le sigh*.

BU-UT, all that whining aside … I do seriously intend on continuing to try to eat healthier, trim down my waistline and lose just a FEW pounds.

 

Because if I lose just a few and tone up, then I will be healthier and have a happier body and body image – though, time, affirmation and self-esteem will be what change the image I really see in the mirror.

 

Of course, if I slim down my waistline AND keep the booty? Well, everybody wins!

 

FAITH HEEL-ING

 

"I pronounce you healed!!!"
"And I pronounce them heels, dumbass." 

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

Is there anything in the world that will make a gay heart weep mascara tracks of confusion and angst like that age old debate: religion versus sexuality?

 

Well, there’s the whole carbs issue, but that’s an article of a different weight-class. And then there’s the White after Labor Day kerfuffle – but, I call myself Caucasian, so I think I’ve avoided the whole mess.

 

This particular gay heart weeps trenchant tears of misery in sympathy for those who get plunged into the fight: there are seldom any winners in these battles – more often, every one walks away hurt inside.

 

Of course, here’s where a casual observer might assume I’d push my own religious views. But, then the casual observer would be wrong. I mean, how would me preaching be fun/funny/entertaining?

 

Short answer: it wouldn’t be.

 

Long answer: a basic religious rule of mine is “MADONNA. She is/She was/She will be.”

 

 "I treat Madonna like many folks treat Christ."

 

So, there you go.

 

No, the battle of religion versus sexuality [somewhere in Vegas there’s a Prize Fight with this name] has been waged for ages and within almost every religion around the world.

 

That being said, few can boast the “Ex-Gay Movement” quite like Christianity and its branches therein.

 

Normally, I wouldn’t riff on them for this – Hell, if the active continual need to flagellate themselves upon their religion to deny who they are is what gets them up in the morning? I say go for it. For themselves.

 

Do. Not. Push. This. On. Others.

 

Once you force this internal issue on someone else? Nuh-uh.  

 

And when your repressed, self-hating ass pushes this esteem-killing bullshit on ME? Oh honey, no. Just. Plain. No.

 

The game? Is on.

 

……

 

Recently, I was shopping at the mall when I ran into two family acquaintances (not quite friends). For politeness' sake, I'll call them Punch and Judy. Both are active members of the Ex-Gay Movement.

 

Never one to be impolite to my elders - well, to start the impolite, anyways - I smiled, nodded and did my best to roll with their kind-hearted and (to them) well-meaning advice and the convoluted conversation about my family in the early 80s.

 

Punch is a scruffy-looking, sandy-haired, middle-aged woman [note that I didn't throw in the obvious wearing-of-flannel with a mullet, that's a cheap shot, even for me] and contrasts nicely with her friend, Judy.

 

Need I make the obvious statements about Judy being a sweet and soft-spoken, limp-wristed old man? I didn't think so - kinda implied there.

 

Having been approached in college by more Bible-thumping bigots than I can shake a stick at [and more than a few of them tried to shake said stick, if you read between the closeted lines] to "redeem myself" and "Pray the sins of gay away" my hackles rise whenever a conversation takes a turn for the denial-angle.

 

"I was gay in college, Ben," Judy's soft voice cut through the din as I zoned out of the conversation. "But, I found my way through our Lord, Jesus Christ. I know what it is to live with that Evil inside of you." Evil?

 

 

"No, honey - these shoes? Are evil. Positively Pilgrim: blech!"

 

"Causing you to have unnatural  thoughts and desires. It's been a struggle - every day - but, I know with His strength, I persevere daily." Yes, because appealing to the gay Jew to find the strength in Christ to play it straight? Aces tactic.

 

Of course, he was batshit crazy to think I bought a single word of it.

 

Ready to lob a vitriol-fueled foul-mouthed retort right back at this, I made the mistake of looking directly in his withered and kindly face.

 

Shit.

 

All Judy wants is for his struggle to mean something; to know that the pain he inflicts on himself because of dogmatic bigotry is worth it. How could I hate someone who, daily, hates a part of himself?

 

I'm an asshole, but, I'm not that big of one.

 

Usually.

 

Deflated, I threw on my best crow-eating grin and said some of the toughest words that have ever come out of my mouth - "I'm really proud of you, Judy. I know that this is an amazing thing you do."

 

And it is; hating yourself so thoroughly and buying into such claptrap for so much of your life is amazing.

 

And still having a good heart? That is truly stupendous.

 

Of course, I'm still me - genuine Class A Jackass - and I tossed a smart aleck-y "I'll say a prayer for you at Temple with my boyfriend" over my shopping bag.

 

[I seldom go to Temple - twice in 6 years isn't bad, is it? - and been perennially single for the better part of 9 years of dating.]

 

......

"Why do I think I need a faboo pair of 7" heels to feel better?
Oh, wait, because it's WWMD - What Would Madonna Do."

 

Game on, indeed.

 

Ben's Mouth: 1   -    Religious (well-meaning) Fanatics: 1 ... damn tie.

 

And the time my best friend's Grandmother tried to have one of those old-fashioned revivals where I would be "saved"? ...

 

Fanatics: 2

Secret Lesbrarians

 

 

Having To Wait For Madonna's New Album

A new song just dropped and we want more! The record company is teasing us. It sucks having to wait for our Queen. Come on Madonna, release it now so gay hearts can stop weeping and start dancing! <3

  

 

 

 

THE IKEA-YEAR ITCH

"Sweetie, I promise; after we people-watch - and I finish my lingonberry martini - Mommy will pick you up a nice Lewenhaupt on the way out."
"But Mom, will it match my Hastfer-Bielke?"

 

 

 

Benjamin Kissell

 

What makes a gay heart weep like the insanity brought on by cheaply-made/vastly-reduced Swedish furniture and the nutcases it attracts? I don't know, but, let's NOT fill me in, okay? I've seen enough to last several lifetimes.

 

[Just because your tee sports the Gold's Gym name and logo front and center, it doesn't automatically make you skinny. Especially when it's at least 2 sizes too small. A muffin-top isn't thin, even when you call it low-cal.]

 

My friends John and Mike - an adorable couple who nearly give me diabetes they're so sweetly cute together [seriously, if I ever get half as happy in a relationship as they are? I've done it right] - asked me to meet them  [read: bribed me with lunch] at IKEA while they bought a few things.

 

After getting lost trusting GoogleMaps AND the friggin' signs [seriously, how shittily must you label your roads Northern VA?] I went with my gut and classic Ooh-I-sorta-recognize-these-landmarks to make it there.

 

[You'd think I couldn't get lost taking the straight-shot to a GINORMOUS mall and IKEA; you'd also think I wasn't screaming at every assclap on the road, but, then, you'd be wrong.]

 

Despite getting lost, I beat the boys there - how the hell? - and waited for them in the everything-lingonberry cafeteria. And despite my sitting ASFARAWAYFROMEVERYONEASFUCKINGPOSSIBLE I was quickly surrounded by cheerful families and bitterly nursing my very-obviously-75cents-burned-coffee.

 

Scowl in-place. 

 

Glaring and hating the perky people who'd suddenly surrounded me. Despite my love of all-things-possibly-bought here [and a compulsive-shopping form of OCD] I'm always in a bad mood at IKEA.

 

They found me 10minutes later and, somehow, soon had me laughing [have I mentioned how much I love these two? Because I do].

 

Much oohing and awing occured (including my awwing over how cute John and Mike are together - seriously, we're talking toothache level of sweet here, people) and we'd soon circled the whole of the place picking up damn-near-everything as we trailed the main floors.

 

[So many good deals, hideous outfits and how-I-want-to-punch-them-Hipsters float around an IKEA, you'd think it's their spawning grounds]

 

Despite coming with a specific set of shopping goals.

 

And spending limits.

 

While I watch these two friends of mine - and resist the urge to fling the inordinately ugly umlauted-name-tauting hideous whatever-the-hell-it-is into the nearest speaker screeching Lady Gaga [seriously, IKEA?] - I think back on my last two trips here.

 

.....

 

  "Ooh, look - I can see my house from up here."
"Dude, you can see the curvature of the earth from up here."

 

In 2006 I visited the church of all-things-Swede with my then-boyfriend, Patrick (a chef), and we did the rounds of the main floor - canoodling, holding hands and being that nauseatingly-cute couple everyone (including me) hates. Focusing on the various kitchens we contemplated just what types of appliances and layouts really struck us.

 

[Being 23 and 19, we really had no business looking at a future like that - looking back.]

 

I mean, I loved leaning against my almost-pocket-gay boyfriend for stolen kisses while we judged [harshly] the butcher-block tiered-kitchen-island in one layout. But, picturing a future together after only a month and a half of dating? WTF? He laughed and smiled at all the right moments, but, was reserved when my glance fell away. I should have seen the writing on the wall.

 

[Read: not have been such a complete dumbass.]

 

Cut to a week later, he went on vacation with his family.

 

A week after that? I received a Dear John Letter via myspace e-mail.

 

Not learning the perils of IKEA on my fragile relationships, I went back in 2007 with my new (and-probably-rebound) boyfriend [okay, everyone sees it coming, right?] Andrew. Together only a few weeks we both needed to pick up a few things from our friendly neighborhood (okay, 25miles away) IKEA.

 

My obsessive-compulsive shopping - which some have commented borders on lunatic - dragged us all over each of the floors, picking up various items we had no need (or want) of. Of course, I commented on how cute the giant bed with 50s vintage room-set would be if we got an apartment down the road.

 

[Stupid. Stupid. Stupid me.]

 

Less than a week later, in preparations for a matching Hallowe'en couple's costume Andrew says he's busy.

 

And doesn't call me back the next day. Or the day after. Or the week after.

 

Oh, IKEA, your Banshee wail calls out the death of my relationships.

 

Of course, most would argue those relationships were doomed and IKEA just helped speed them up. I call those people busy-bodies who need to shut the ... I mean, friends.

 

.....

 

As we exit with the LED under-bed lights John and Mike came for in tow - shopping victory I say! - I mumble to myself: True, IKEA seems to hasten my relationships' demises - as it brings out more of my neurotic and rather bitchier sides - but, it isn't my enemy.

 

As I walk with my friends, and watch their adorable banter [again, so friggin' cute, these two], I know they're in no danger of falling victim to my IKEA-year itch.

 

 

ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE DAYS

"Single by choice ... well, not mine, but, someone's"

 

 

Benjamin Kissell

You know your week is off to a stellar start when it has Valentine’s Day AND 2 of your ex-boyfriends’ birthdays in it.

Did I mention that both are in long-term, committed relationships?

I didn’t? Well, now I did.

Bitter: party of me.

What made this gay heart weep tears reminiscent of Lady Gaga losing all those Grammys to Adele [that’s right, “album of the decade”, mm hmm] was just making it through the snark-inducing shit I deal with.

Join me, please.

 

Thank you Brian B for the inspiration from our fb chat.

 

[Now, picture me in a cute 60s PanAm-esque Flight Attendant outfit ...]

 

Good Morning, passengers of Gay Hearts Weep Airlines, this is your flight attendant – Benjamin – speaking. You need to board this flight quickly and quietly. Your flight crew appreciates this.

Now, here are some simple rules which will ensure everyone has a pleasant flight and walks away from this plane alive.

There is no need to talk to anyone. It is O’Dark-Stupid in the morning; that means it is time to sleep. No one gives a shit about ANY of your problems. To all children that are under the age of 5, please pay close attention:

Shut. The. Fuck. Up. It is way past your bedtime so NO ONE should hear a single peep out of you! If you continue to make noise? I will pepper-spray you my damn self. You have been warned.                                                                                                              

[*ahem* It may be noted here that some have theorized I have a problem with children. Those people? Are perceptive]

 

…..

 

Needless to say, I am not a morning person. Nor can it truly be said I’m an afternoon person. Nor much of a Night Owl. Come to think of it, I think I’m set on perma-snarky.

I wonder if it’s a medical condition.

Should I treat it with wine?

.....

 

Let’s examine this past Monday, as an example of why I’ve such an outlook, together: 

I got up at O’Dark-Stupid in the morning to be at work [again, not a morning person – but, thank gawdd for coffee] and wade through a pack of imbeciles.

I mean pleasant people.

No, I mean completely selfish assclaps who seem to spend hours plotting how to make my mornings at work as difficult as possible.

[Some people call them customers.]

Anywhoo, after all of the loveliness of an 8-hour shift with no real break, I hopped in the car to drive my tired ass home [Please note that I refrained from nabbing McDonald’s – my de facto comfort fast food – stoopid diet. Bugger.] only to discover that my front driver’s side tire had a lovely sharp screw.

Embedded in it.

At least something’s getting screwed for Valentine’s.

Yepp, the day before Saint Valentine’s and I am single, dealing with a flattening front tire, fighting that impending-30s spare tire, and fighting the urge to punt anyone in the balls who so much as crosses me.

 

Healthy coping mechanism? Why, you bet’cha!

 

Okay, I totally took the coward’s way out and called Grandpa to ask what I should do (aside from replacing the tire) – he promised we could spend the next morning replacing or repairing the tire. *Whew!* 

Assured of future success with the tire, I threw caution to the wind and let my hair down. Way down. In fact, I asked my lovely roommate Melanie to chop it off.

[One way to lose weight, cut 3-4 lbs of hair.]

Some people deal with things through shopping [guilty], eating unhealthy foods [also guilty], inappropriate behavior [need I say it?], but on a diet and dirt-broke I turned to the old stand-by: snarky and inappropriate commentary and re-invention.

I may have spent the better part of the evening reading fantastically funny blogs, twitter-feeds and watching youtube … with some wine paired beautifully.

....

A change-up as simple as hair cut or color can perk up even my shittiest day – of course, pairing it with an over-priced t-shirt would make it complete, but, who am I kidding? Not gonna happen.

With my short haircut – inspired by What’s-his-name-you-know-the-hot-one-on-CSI – and a bowl of low-cal devil’s food cake mix [tastier than cardboard, but not much] I had a bounce in my step.

The bonus? The fact that many 18-25 yr olds think I look 22/23 with it is totally [low-cal] icing on the [gawdd how much I wish it were real chocolate] cake.

 

Hrmm, perhaps it wasn’t such a shitty week after all.

 

Or maybe that’s just the wine speaking.

Ridiculous Runway: Inflatable Dress

Picture proof that what you wear can make you miserable.

Below is Lanie from the GAY HEART WEEP book: