Coming soon, to a government office near you

Miss Thornberry, have a seat.  Alright, according to our records you are 32 years and 1 month old as of today. 

Your medical records indicate you have never given birth or even attempted to have a baby.

I’m sure you’re aware that all women are required to have been pregnant at least once by age 32.  Can you provide any proof our information about you is incorrect? 

We have a physician on site who can perform an examination right now in the adjoining room, if you deny these findings.

That won’t be necessary.  I’ve never had a child or been pregnant. 

But in my defense, I have a defective heart valve that more than doubles the risk of mortality for someone like myself carrying a baby to term.  My personal physician will attest to this.

Miss Thornberry, we--

It’s not Miss Thornberry.  It’s Dr. Thornberry.  I too am a medical physician.

Fine then.  Doctor Thornberry, we’re fully aware of your defective heart valve.  But your mortality isn’t what is at stake here.  Your future baby’s mortality is.

This is preposterous.  Not that it should matter, but I am an integral part of a government think tank devoted to the research and eradication of women’s cancers.  Even if I met someone suitable, and was healthy enough to become pregnant, a baby couldn’t possibly fit into the equation. 

Dr. Thornberry, surely you’re aware of President Mastriano’s “NO EXCEPTION” Federal abortion ban of 2027, even in cases of rape & incest.  This law mandating all women become impregnated by 32 also comes with no exceptions.  Frankly I don’t care if you’re the blessed Melania Superior.  You ARE going to become pregnant.

And YOU can talk to my attorney.  What the—I’m unable to lift my arms off this chair—I can’t move my feet!

Your chair and the floor below it are wired with sensors and magnetic alloys that can detect when a woman is ovulating.  I suggest you stop trying to free yourself, a woman broke her wrist there recently.

I demand you let me go!

Here’s what’s going to happen.  You’ll be taken to a private room on this floor where your legs will be put into stirrups.  From there, you’ll be given two options:  insemination via a sterile medical apparatus resembling a turkey baster, containing a purely randomized sperm sample from one of thousands of male donors.  Doctors, serial killers, pacifists, hunchbacks—it could be any one of them, as this is America, equal rights for all.

I refuse!

Then your other option is to select one of our on-site male volunteers who can inseminate you first-hand, as God intended.  Your choices here are limited, but you’ll be allowed to choose from a line-up of men in another room.

Either way, it’s your choice.

(Psst—I’m not trying to be funny here.  When we FORCE pregnancies on women it’s only a matter of time before we begin using them for breeding—like cattle.  And we WILL get there, as long as we allow fascists—I mean, Conservatives—to remain in control.)

My first gay encounter: er, it's not what you think ;^)

NOTE:  I am an older man out of step with the times, so this may contain language or memories you find offensive!

Yesterday afternoon when I was outside in front of my building, two young men were headed my way from the opposite direction.

They looked around 17-18 years old, were both medium height, slender, one had a goatee.  And they were holding hands.

I tried not to stare, but this isn’t something you see every day in Pittsburgh.  Well, not in my neighborhood anyway.  I’m aware there’s a lot of gay people here, I’ve been lucky to know and work with several over the years and seen plenty at the Pittsburgh Pride parades every year.

I know gays have been pretty open for awhile.  Ten years ago, when my older niece Drew was going to her senior prom, I was curious about her date and looked him up on Facebook.  On his profile page he’d written he was afraid of ghosts, milk & frogs, “not necessarily in that order”.   When I contacted my sister Donda and said “Hey—about this young man…” she told me to relax, he was Drew’s best friend, gay and everyone knew it.  Wow, okay!   

This sure isn’t the world I grew up in.  When I was a teenager, being branded a “queer” or “faggot” was a death sentence.  I remember getting cornered at least a dozen times in the locker room before or after gym class, in 7th & 8th grades.  Always the same guys who looked like 15 year old versions of the hillbillies in the movie Deliverance, Vernon S, Jerry E & Alan B.  Always demanding to know if I was queer-bait, while Donald B, a creepy possum-faced redneck stood behind them making kissy lips at me.  Looking back, I'm sure they were more into guys than I was.  

Mom, the Beauty Parlor and my first Gay Man

When I was 11-12 years old, and my mom was still getting her hair done weekly at Mary Jane’s Beauty Salon, Dad would drop my sister Shawn & myself off in town on Saturday mornings and we’d ride home with Mom from her beauty appointment.  One Saturday in the spring of 1972, as we sat there in the shop eating candy and reading comics and waiting for Mom to finish, a man walked in wearing a fur stole and sporting a blonde beehive. 

He was short, pasty, on the chubby side.  His name was Conrad Perry.  (Conrad was NOT a transsexual, a straight man who dressed as a woman.  He was a gay man who was extremely effeminate.)  I’m pretty sure he was harmless.

He was clearly in a dither, gesturing at his head and pleading with the shop’s owner.  Mary Jane told him to come back in an hour and she’d fit him in.

When he left the salon, Shawn & I went back to Mom and asked “Was that a homosexual?” 

Mary Jane and a couple of the other ladies laughed, and poor Mom looked like a deer caught in someone’s headlights.  She said “Do you even know what one is?  Where did you hear that?”

I said “When we were at Grandma B's house for Thanksgiving, she dropped a National Examiner in your lap and said ‘Here, I told you these two were married.’  It had Rock Hudson & Jim Nabors on the cover.  So is Conrad Perry one too?”

Mom said “How do you kids even know Conrad!”  My sister said “We see him on Main Street on his bike all the time” and I said “Yeah, he always wears those red satin hot-pants.”

Mom said “The next time you see him headed in your direction, I want you to cross the street.”  I said “But he zig-zags too.  Won’t that look funny if we’re always zig-zagging when he is?” 

The ladies in the shop were now laughing pretty hard, while Mom shook her head and said “You damn kids, go sit down!”

I want to add that Mom did change with the times, and 10 years later she’d take up disco skating and become good friends with Ronnie A, an out-of-the-closet gay man and former classmate of mine who’s been with his partner 40+ years.

Here’s my funny, beautiful mom in the early 80s, wearing her gay pride rainbow top.  I sure do love and miss you, Mom—and I miss seeing you get riled up! 

 

So what if I lose everything—I think I’ve found the perfect chair

Have you ever seen something and knew instantly you must have it?   For myself, it’s a rare thing.  I’m usually on the fence about most things, especially when it involves furniture or spending money. 

But since moving into my apartment in April 2017, I’ve been on the lookout for a particular leather chair.  And I’m pretty sure I found it, at the worst possible time.

There would be no compromises.  It HAD to be full grain, none of this “genuine leather” or bonded leather stuff.  Camel or tan only, no black or browns or burgundy.  No rivets, no highback-Wingbacks.  I didn’t want one of those overstuffed recliners with a kangaroo pouch sewn into it’s side for books and remotes either. 

(Yes I know they’re comfortable, but I wanted something more compact, stylish, fitting a city apartment.) 

I found something close at Pottery Barn, and requested leather samples.  But they were all too dark or cowpokey, and I would soon discover PB had an awful reputation with their leather chairs being outsourced (taking 3-4 months), doubled in price and having shoddy workmanship.

          

So I stopped looking.  A couple years passed, and then I came across this chair a month ago and knew it was the one.  I checked the depth, heighth, width, weight capacity, manufacturer, everything.  It’s a full grain, soft Italian leather with 31 customer reviews, half of them containing pictures, all of them praising it’s quality.  But there was one problem:

It was priced at $1,399.99.   I couldn’t bring myself to pay that much for a chair.

Then a couple weeks ago, I saw the chair had gone on sale for $200 off, $1199.99.  I sent the photo at the top to 3 people I knew I could trust their opinion.

My sister Shawn said “It looks exactly like the chair you’ve been looking for a long time.  I hope you don’t talk yourself out of buying it!”

My blog-friend Margaret said “It’s gorgeous and will go perfectly with your navy blue sofa.”

My friend Danielle said “It’s beautiful but peta!”

All 3 of their responses (even Danielle and her hippie squawk) was actually quite helpful.  I just needed some kind of… I dunno, sign to tell me to go for it.

Then I’m watching the evening news a couple nights ago, and they did another one of those “your average 401K investor” alerts because of the bear market we’ve fallen into, and stock portfolios losing 25% in value since January.

I haven’t looked at my own investments since January 10, when I sold some shares to keep my 2-year safe bucket full.  So I opened my account…

My portfolio is down $171,000.00 since January.  I’d estimated the loss would be half that amount.  I felt dizzy, this was scary.

Unlike most of the other bloggers I know, I do NOT have a partner, pension, annuity, equity, insurance or social security to fall back on.  (I’m not even eligible to claim social security for another 16 months.)  What if I lost that amount again, a couple times over?  My goose would be cooked.

I have my safe-bucket.  If I stick to a budget, I should have enough to carry me thru this bear market (if they last on average two years).  As for the chair… that’s the LAST thing I needed right now.

So this past Saturday I went on their website to have a final look and see if it was still on sale.  It was, and even lower in price—the chair was now $919.00, down $480 since the first time I saw it!   I couldn’t move my fingers fast enough.

The chair will arrive sometime between June 28 and July 4—I’m glad I didn’t wait, the sale ended yesterday and is now back at regular price. 

If I lose the rest of my money and wind up homeless, I’ll move into the alley behind the Tiffany (my apartment building) and appoint myself King of Cherry Alley—and this chair will become my throne!