If you're gonna send this spam to a gay man ...

At least send it in the winter:

Climbing climbing climbing RIGHT TO THE TOP!

So I'd imagined rock climbing as having a difficulty level between a light back workout (a 2 on a scale of 10) and the last three miles of a half marathon (a 6 on a scale of 10). In reality, the whole thing is about an 11 on a scale of 8, once you factor in the sweaty palms, the hand grips that are often as useful as mouse nipples, the forearms that turn rock-solid with pain even when you're trying your damndest to support yourself with your toes like you were told to, and the unintentional grunting that constantly reminds you holy shit this is hard and if I don't focus and hold on I could fall off this wall and even though I'm tethered to a safety rope the partial fall might very likely result in an unintentional pooping.

It starts out easy enough, though. You're on the ground and then you're holding onto a wall. Easy, right? But then you're expected to climb the wall. Like some gravity-hostile monkey. But at least at first you're close enough to pose for a reasonably in-focus picture:

But then you're off. And every reach you make and every step you take obligates you to separate yourself from the safe, comfy ground. Plus pictures of you start to get blurry:

But if you don't look down and you don't look up and you just keep focusing on successfully holding onto the next mouse nipple and then the next and then the next, you suddenly find yourself 65 feet in the air, slapping a chalky stripe of colorful tape at the top to signal that YOU MADE IT!

And then you get to ride down. Which is lots of fun. Unless you're so busy smiling for pictures that you bonk your knee into the wall. Which would never happen to a seasoned expert like me.

But if your bonk results in broken skin, you are suddenly very badass. And people take pictures of your wound as though it were a trophy. Or a talisman of masculinity. Even though using the word talisman automatically disqualifies you from the ranks of the masculine. But if the photos don't register the gushing blood in the proper shades of crimson and terror, your street cred plummets when you display your trophy on your blog so you might as well call it a talisman and let people laugh at you until the next "family values" Republican gets caught cheating on his wife and finally takes the heat and humiliation off you.

And after two successful climbs and two not-so-successful climbs, you are spent. But not spent in an overextending-your-credit kind of way. Spent in a good way. In an I'll-sleep-so-soundly-I-probably-won't-notice-when-I-pee-myself kind of way. And when you text your trainer afterward to report that "climbing is a BITCH," he—who has heretofore never shown any interest in talking smack on any level—will text you back with a terse "suck it up." Which will make you laugh. Plus in your exhausted spentness, you'll pose for pictures where your harness pretty much says I got your talisman right HERE:

But enough about you. This is Scott. He was my belay artist (or whatever the proper title is) during my climbs last night. He's also so freaking adorable I could tether my body to his with a rope. Which, in fact, I did.

I have a good 60 pounds on Scott. So when he belays me, he doesn't just stand there like a boy with a kite. I actually make him work to keep me from killing myself when I fall off a climbing wall and face the prospect of plummeting 30 feet to my sloppy, splatty death. Which may or may not have happened one or maybe two times last night. Or possibly even three. But no more than four. And there was no involuntary pooping. At least not by me.

Scott is, of course, a consummate professional when he belays his friends. His commitment to and respect for his climbers are beyond reproach.

But enough about Scott. This is Brad. He climbed with us too. And he was put on this earth to make us feel bad about our calves.

Brad climbed four times last night too. And he always made it to the top. And he never fell off the wall. Which means he never pooped involuntarily. I assume. And see the colored tape next to the mouse nipples on the wall behind him? He did three climbs where he limited himself to using only the mouse nipples marked with one color of tape. So he has the power to make us feel bad about more than our calves.

But I'm magnanimously still letting him be my friend. And possibly my climbing buddy. Even though he doesn't have any talismans like us badass climbers.

Plus he uses his fingers too much too. So we both had painfully pumped forearms when the night was over. And we were, of course, not to vain—or veined (HA!)—to show them off for posterity:

I thought I'd be a wreck 24 hours after my first four climbs to the heavens (assuming they're on the third floor), but I'm in no more lingering pain today than I usually get from a workout. Possibly because I had one at 7:00 this morning. But my forearms are still tight. And my calves are tender. So I must have used my toes at some point. And my heart got racy and my palms got sweaty just from reliving all the fun as I wrote about it here. So I can't wait to do it again. And if you have any interest in rock climbing, I say go for it! But not before you abandon any preconceived notions you have that it will be easy. Or that you won't get out without being covered in talismans.

I have a new respect for rock climbing

Because I just did it for three hours. And I have a bloody bruise on my knee to prove it. Which makes me totally badass. And just a little bit limpy.

For those of you keeping score at home, I made four climbs up a 65-foot wall. I made it to the top twice. I made it halfway up twice. And I completely fell off the wall and found myself dangling in space hanging from an alarmingly thin rope three times. Which is more than a little unnerving.

There are pictures. But they're not on my camera. I'll post them as soon as I get them. But first: sleep. Six hours of it. Because what's left of my body is going to be pummeled by my trainer starting at 7:00 tomorrow. And I want to be awake enough to enjoy all the street cred I get from my bloody, bruisy, badass knee.

Fireworks and bunting and other accoutrements of patriotism

Wow. A long weekend of uncling can really cut into your blogging time. As can a hectic first couple days back at work.

But here's our July 4 weekend in a nutshell:

Running: I ran the Fifth Season 8K in cold, spitty rain on Saturday. I didn't set another personal best, but I finished at an 8:41 pace, which is at the fast end of my acceptable race-time continuum. My little nephew was all excited to run with me, but when he found out the race had moved and was no longer running past his house where he could bask in the glow of a 30-foot front-yard cheering section, he decided to sit this race out. Which meant less running in cold, spitty rain for me, so I'm not complaining.

Uncling: I'm past the point of letting the kids win at Sorry and Apples to Apples and all the other games they like to play with us. So now they're kicking my butt on their own. Rotten kids.

Celebrating: I took my entire family to dinner on Friday to celebrate my folks' 45th anniversary and my sister and her husband's 15th anniversary. We went to one of those food-as-theater Japanese restaurants where they make a big show of cooking everything fresh right in front of you ... but they drench everything in soy sauce so it all ends up tasting the same when you finally get it. The kids get a huge kick out of the little peeing chef doll they use to put out fires, which helps overcome the dull blandness of the menu. At $300, the evening averaged out to $5 per year of celebrated marriage. And that's a pretty affordable way to honor the people I love the most in this world.

Shopping: I love to shop for stuff when I'm home in Iowa because there's parking! and lower taxes! and merchandise that hasn't been picked over! And on this trip I came home with fabulous new 1,000-count sheets and fluffy, fluffy pillows, a trunkful of protein shakes and other potions of aging gay male vanity, new knee-length (like the kids wear!) gym shorts (with pockets!), new foo-foo trendy T-shirts that are probably a size too small (see: gay male vanity, above), and storage containers for organizing our tools and painting supplies since our condo has all the storage of a pair of Barbie® panties.

The dog: Could she be any cuter? Only if we put her in a little polka-dot hat. Or taught her to walk in pantaloons:

Bucolic bliss: My nephew is turning out to be a pretty fierce pitcher. He's kind of a shy little kid—just like his lonely uncle Jake was—so I'm glad he's found a skill that will bring kids to him as he becomes a rockstar baseball player and eventually buys us all mansions and unnecessary surgeries on his Major League salary. But he still needs to practice his fundamentals if I'm gonna get pec implants. So on Sunday afternoon, his dad took him out in the front yard to practice pitching and catching and fielding while the rest of us sat in the shade and cheered him on in our little Mayberry world. And, despite what this picture might indicate, he did not lose a leg in a Hannah Montana-related stampede:

Speaking of Hannah Montana, my niece loooooves her. She also loooooves doing anything her big brother does. So she took her turn at pitching practice as well. Even though she's already declared that her sport will be golf. Or maybe choir:

I know this is kind of gay—and probably more than a little unsafe—but I still had my camera in my side pocket of my cargo shorts when we hit my favorite stretch of highway 30 on our drive home on Sunday. And I was able to dig it out in time to snap this picture of its simple beauty: a mile of arrow-straight road carved out of a thick woods just east of the Wapsipinicon River. It's even more breathtaking after a fresh snow. And it's always a goofy little highlight of drive back and forth to my hometown:

Packing for a roadtrip to visit the family in Iowa

Clothes. Check.
Toiletries. Check.
Protein shakes. Check.
Running shoes. Check.
Running watch. Check.
Running watch charger. Check.
Sunglasses. Check.
Cell phone. Check.
Cell phone charger. Check.
Camera. Check.
New Billy Elliot CD. Check.
New Hair CD featuring a girl from my home town. Check.
New In the Heights CD. Check.
New Legally Blonde CD. Check.
New Little Mermaid CD. Check.
New Next to Normal CD. Check.
New Shrek CD. Check.
New West Side Story CD. Check.
Stuff to return at the Cedar Rapids Lowe’s since it’s in many ways easier to get to than the Chicago Lowe’s. Check.
My parents’ house key. Oops.

Proud to blog

Pride weekend in Chicago was one of the best I can ever remember. And not just because the weather was perfect. And our bathroom renovation was finally done. And I finished the Proud to Run 10K in 55:21—an 8:55 pace, which is well within the parameters (though still on the slower end) of my personal acceptable-pace continuum. And for the first time in nine years of Chicago pride festivities I didn’t even have a glimmer of a panic attack, which is how my lifelong social anxiety disorder and I have traditionally chosen to respond—often by hiding in the house—to the horrifying prospect of large crowds of happy, friendly people who want to talk to me. Social anxiety disorders are retarded, and I’m pretty proud to report how far I’ve come in beating down my own personal retard in the nine years I’ve lived here. (That metaphor probably came out a bit harsh, but words cannot describe the anger and frustration I feel over all the living I’ve lost while hiding in my house as the world partied on happily outside without me.)

Wow. I didn’t mean to go there in this post. But I did and I’m not taking it back. Because my pride weekend this year had an extra level of pridyness that I've never enjoyed before. And it felt great!

PLUS! I took pictures!

We started pride weekend at a rooftop party at Boytstown's fabulous Center on Halsted. We didn't know many people there so I didn't take many pictures because taking pictures of complete strangers is kinda creepy. But I did snap this view of the Chicago skyline rising above some of the heads of some of the aforementioned strangers. For those of you who are new here, this picture contains Chicago's four tallest buildings in order of height (though since they're not built right next to each other, the height hierarchy isn't readily apparent): the John Hancock Center (#4) is the black building peeking out behind the brick-y buildings on the left, the oft-forgotten Aon Center (#3) is the flat-topped white building with the vertical black stripes three buildings to its right, the so-new-it's-not-totally-finished-yet Trump International Hotel and Tower (#2) is the silver thing gleaming in the center of the photo, and the soon-to-be-called Willis Tower (née Sears Tower, #1) is the noble black structure climbing skyward on the right:

We left the Center on Halsted to head to a couples' party at the lovely home of some boys from our book club. But I don't know any of the guests well enough (yet!) to post their pictures on my blog. So you'll just have to use your imaginations to picture us all laughing mirthfully over some wry anecdote I've told about my New Yorker subscription as we stand around swirling authentic Champagne and chomping hand-rolled canapés in our velvet smoking jackets. You can't tell in this picture but under my velvet smoking jacket I'm wearing my new basketball shirt. Seriously. It has a picture of a football with the word "baseball" under it. Get it? It's funny because I don't speak sports!

Unfortunately, we couldn't stay at the party long because we had to be up early for Proud to Run, the big gay 5K or 10K (you choose!) that always kicks off pride weekend in the sweatiest, shirtlessiest of ways. I wasn't functioning well enough to use my own camera so early in the morning, but our friend Shaine was at the finish line, and he provided the only photographic evidence of my participation in the event:

Since we live mere Ks from the the finish line, we always invite all the sweaty runners we know over to our house after the race for Proud to Brunch, a festival of delicious pastries, warm egg casseroles, dehydrating beverages and ridiculously hot friends:

Some of these ridiculously hot friends were race winners. And they shamelessly rubbed our faces in their bemedaled superiority:

Or they just stood around our house being hot:

Sometimes I sneaked my way in the pictures to show off my tattoo, which still has the power to shock me with its way-bigger-than-I-thought-it-would-be-ness:

And sometimes, like some Lawrence Welk sister act, I posed with other tattooed friends to show off our "ink," as the cool kids in prison call it:

And just to prove that we count a few women among our hot runner friends, here is a gratuitous Proud to Brunch chick shot:

We spent the rest of the day hanging with other friends at Pridefest, the street fair that takes over Boystown for the two days leading up to the parade. It was actually my favorite part of the whole weekend; we ran into everyone we knew, we ate food out of paper wrappers, we drank fruity drinks (some with alcohol!) and we spent almost the entire afternoon and evening with another couple we'd previously only kind-of known as bar friends. We ran into them the moment we got to the street fair and we really enjoyed laughing and eating and drinking and gossiping our way through the rest of the day together. Except we all stood too close to the speakers for the perhaps-named-after-a-misspelled-Cole-Porter-song Inaya Day concert. And 48 hours later I'm still having trouble hearing out of one ear. Uff da.

The next day was the pride parade, which the domestic partner and I marched in ... in one of the ass-last parade entries. We were so ass-last, in fact, that we met up with our fellow marchers before the parade at Fullerton Avenue, a whole freaking mile south of the parade's official Belmont Avenue starting point. But, in a fit of possibly unintentional homosexuality, we had our pre-parade doughnut party in Oz Park, which was built in honor of Wizard of Oz creator and Chicago native son L. Frank Baum. And you know what a Wizard of Oz-themed park means, don't you? DOROTHY STATUE!

And as a true friend of Dorothy, I can't think of a more fabulous photo op to sum up a more fabulous pride weekend with a more fabulous domestic partner in always fabulous Chicago.

What the hell do gay people have to be proud of?

We’re proud because despite relentless persecution everywhere we turn—when organized religion viciously attacks and censures and vilifies us in the name of selective morality, when our families disown us, when our elected officials bargain away our equality for hate votes, when entire states codify us into second-class status, when our employers fire us, when our landlords evict us, when our police harass us, when our neighbors and colleagues and fellow citizens openly insult and condemn and mock and berate and even beat and kill us—we continue to survive.

We’re proud because pride is the opposite of shame—and despite what the Christian hate industry works so hard to make the world believe, there is nothing shameful about being gay.

We’re proud because more and more, we are able to live our lives openly and joyfully without fear of losing our jobs, losing our housing, losing our families and losing our lives.

We’re proud because we are smart enough to overcome the self-loathing that our increasingly venomous, mindlessly theocratic society forces on us, and we have the power to stop its destructive cycle by fighting back and by making intelligent choices involving sex and drugs and money and relationships and the way we live our lives.

We’re proud because after all we’ve been through, the world is starting to notice and respect us and emulate the often fabulous culture we’ve assembled from the common struggles and glorious diversity of our disparate lives.

We (and from this point on, I really mean “I” when I say “we”) are proud because we woke up this morning all snuggled up next to our domestic partner and we paused to savor what we had built together: a happy home, a safe environment, a mutual respect, a reciprocal love and a blissfully stable marriage.

We're proud because we'll be marching alongside our domestic partner in the parade on Sunday in a celebration of our relationship, our happiness, and the extended family of both gay and straight friends we have.

We’re proud because this weekend we'll celebrate with drag queens, leather queens, muscle queens, attitude queens and you'd-never-know-they-were-queens queens, and together we can see through the “pride” in our parade and enjoy the underlying Pride in our parade.

Quite simply, we’re proud that we have so much to be proud of.