The return of The Midnight Cat

I was standing in the kitchen tonight, after having cooked up some turkey burgers, marvelling at my brilliance. I finally figured out a way to make burgers that fit into my insane dietary requirements: cook 1 cup of rice then combine with 500g turkey/chicken/pork mince, 2 eggs, 1 cup gluten-free (or other suitably low GI) flour and 1 cup of frozen vegies and shallow fry in canola oil. I was organising the washing up when I heard a miaow. The Midnight Cat meandered into the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably.

He made a bee-line to the fridge before rubbing his body against my ankles. Being the cutest cat in recent memory I gave in and got out some ham for him to nibble on. I continued washing dishes and he continued trying to get my attention until fed him more. After the dishes were done I took some dry cups into my room and he followed me and started poking around my cupboards and under my bed; I’m not sure if he was exploring, hunting or both. He found a place in front of my heater, curled up and sighed contentedly.

I left him alone and continued with my chores in the kitchen. When I returned he miaowed for more ham now that it was conveniently located in my hand and not in the fridge. I poured him a small bowl of milk and put the ham and the milk on a piece of newspaper in the corner. Once he had satisfied himself he stalked over the bed and sat on the floor watching as I typed on my laptop. He caught my eye, so I called his name and patted the mattress beside me.

He leapt up onto the bed and started walking over to me. He walked onto my crossed legs and placed his front two paws on my chest, effectively walking up my body in such a way that his head was pressing into my shoulder with all his might. I put my arm around him and cuddled him and he purred and arched his back in delight. He was pushing on me in such a way that I had to lay down to stop him falling off me onto the floor; he took full advantage of this and stood on my chest, purring. He lay down, nuzzled his head into my neck and sighed contentedly.

He’s now asleep on the floor in front of the heater... The Optimist has had him in his room overnight and had no problems, not even being woken at sunrise, so I think I’m going to let him stay in here tonight. It's nice to have the company.

I think Janek is jealous.

The Midnight Cat

I’m determined that the last post tonight will not be negative...

Since moving in The Optimist and I have noticed that our cul-de-sac has a couple of cats roaming around. There is one in particular that I’ve seen around a lot, who is particularly cute and fluffy, that we have really taken a liking to. He isn’t particularly friendly; when I see him in the street I bend down to say hello and rather than being greeted with the cold indifference that only a cat can pull off, he runs away from me. I call him The Midnight Cat.

Incidentally, The Midnight Cat is not the only four-legged animal in our house. Months ago, The Optimist told me that during the night one night he woke and felt a warm weight on his chest. He pushed it off and went back to sleep. He woke up again and heard a scuffling around on his desk; turning on his lamp, he was face to face with a rat. A big one. He then remembered the weight on his chest and shuddered (and while retelling the story to me, he shuddered visibly again, bless him). He spent the better part of an hour, in the middle of the night, trying to get the rat out of his room but to no avail.

The Midnight Cat is so named because he always comes over to our place late at night, walks straight into the house and circles our feet when we are in the kitchen doing the dishes, purring. The Optimist and I have started to give him little pieces of bacon or ham so that he’ll come back because, in The Optimist’s words, he’s “always wanted to befriend a cat”. Also, The Optimist figures that if The Midnight Cat makes his visits more frequent, then the Midnight Rat will piss off and stop jumping on him in his sleep.

The photo below shows The Optimist’s hand, feeding The Midnight Cat some bacon.

Ouch, it hurts my heart

I’m really getting very sick of the familial drama that seems to be befalling me left, right and centre. For the time being, I’m just avoiding Sister. Which is incredibly easy, because she appears to be avoiding me… I haven’t heard from her since The Letter. But to be honest if she calls I won’t answer it; I’d much rather deal with her in writing for the time being.

I sent out a text message today to some friends and family about the results of my recent glucose tolerance test and other various tests (which I’ll blog about in the next few days, once I have got my head around it all). Tía was on the recipient list. Below are the text messages that went back and forth between us:

Me, the original message, at lunch time: Went to doc. I have “reactive hypoglycaemia” which means low carb diet on top of yeast-free FOREVER :( I think I’m in mourning. Ever the saviour, Janek has read into it and has assured me it’s doable and once I get used to it not a huge deal but I haven’t been able to do any research yet. This should help with fatigue and general feeling like shit but not sure about effect on pain yet. Also suggested I quit smoking I said fuck off. So that’s my update. XXX

Tía, in the evening: I’m glad u r getting 2 the bottom of things. Painful but worth it yeah? Pobrecito [poor little thing] :( I hear u sobrino [my nephew]. XO

I replied, without thinking too much about the content. Since The Kiss, I’ve been on cloud nine... so I wasn’t thinking that I probably shouldn’t mention Janek to Tía because I knew she wouldn’t like the whole “boyfriend thing” and probably shouldn’t use smiley faces if I did (not that I plan on censoring myself because she, or Sister for that matter, don’t like it... but there’s a time and a place). But I did, because when you’re on cloud nine you do reckless things like that.

Me: Very painful but Janek found me sugar free chocolate!!! So that makes it a little more bearable!
Tía: Whos Janek?

I knew I’d reached the point of no return. The time lag between messages was much longer the second time... so I guess she was either freaking out or choosing her words. Since I had reached this point I figured no point fucking around...

Me: Janek’s my boyfriend :D
Tía: Ur boyfriend? Since when?
Me: Yep. Only a couple of weeks. Since the 6th.

Then she came at me with...

Tía: Ouch! It hurts my heart. It really is true! I was a bit like grandma although 4 diff reasons I think. I was hoping it was just a phase. I’m sorry Daniel I love u X

Now I ask you, what the fuck do you say to that? I mean I know what she’s getting at but the way she worded it was incredibly cruel. And if she didn’t mean to be cruel then she’s naïve if she thinks it doesn’t come across this way. Several things flashed through my mind (as I stood on the bus hurtling down George Street, no less, so I couldn’t even scream of punch any pillows), none of which I could actually send to an aunt. I threw the phone into my grocery bag, got off the bus and walked to where Janek was meeting me. I showed him the message and told him the things I wanted to write back with. He very pragmatically suggested they may not be the best approaches to take with her and calmed me to a point where I could reply...

Me: Why are you sorry? Because it’s true, because I have a bf or because u sent that message?
Tía: I’m sorry that I can’t celebrate with u. XOXO

Janek again talked me down from replying. At all. Which is good because I would have said something I’d later regret. So the silence list grows... Why is it always the ones you are close to?

Random photos from my phone

So many days without an update... my apologies... Last week I was totally flat out with uni work, studying and the dreaded exams. Until Wednesday. When I had an exam, for which I had not studied nearly as much as I should have. Due to Janek.

Since my photo a day thing didn’t pan out, I’ve been taking photos of things only that catch my eye for being odd or funny. Here are some of the photos I’ve taken off my phone...

11 March 2008
This is me... first picture of my face on this blog… except I don’t have long hair anymore.


16 April 2008
“I’ve got a surprise for you!” Mum declared over the phone one day. “I bought you a new can opener,” she said. “Oh... um... thanks...” I stammered. “Umm... Mum... it’s not that I’m not grateful, but I already have one.” “How much did it cost?” she demanded. “I dunno, two dollars or something I think.” “Well,” Mum continued without missing a beat, “then when that dies in a week you can use the one I bought you.” Like a prophecy fulfilled, the cheap one soon died and it has been replaced by this machine of a can-opener... it is like a tank, I swear.


15 June 2008
The view from my smoking place... The door is the Space Cadet’s room... I’m going to do some kind of artwork of some kind from this photo...


18 June 2008
Candles from the Thai restaurant where Janek took me on The First Date.


24 June 2008
The Space Cadet’s CD player, at its final resting place in our garbage bin. I don’t even want to know what happened here.

The Letter

On the one year anniversary of coming out to Sister, I received a letter from her... it contained a two page hand-written letter and a printout. The letter covered many topics, but the one that was most salient, considering the date, and most upsetting was this:

I have enclosed the reading which I told you about—email correspondence between Fr P [her parish priest in Melbourne] and a same-sex attracted Catholic woman—give it a read and pray about it, and maybe if there’s further questions more than answers speak to [our home parish priest].

The printout was an eleven page collection of emails, back and forth between Fr P and this woman; he explained Church teaching, she argued it, he replied to the arguments with more teachings and she replied to the extra teachings with more arguments. No resolution, no moral, just a back and forth argument between two people.

To say I was upset would be understating it in a big way. I wrote a reply to the letter that night, but I kept it aside for a few days because I didn’t want to send something off in anger and the letter was very raw. I wrote a second letter, while stoned, but decided against sending that one because it was very angry. A few days after that, I wrote the third and final reply and, feeling a little like Goldilocks (this letter is too raw, this letter is too angry, this letter is just right) I mailed it to her. Here are some excerpts of the letter I finally sent:

Hey Sister...

I got your letter on Tuesday but I couldn’t talk about it on the phone. It’s not that I don’t have things to say, it’s that I don’t know how to say them, or if I even want to say them, at least not verbally...

So here’s the thing. I thought we’d reached a détente, like an agreement to disagree or something. I know full well what you believe and you know what I think. Fr P’s emails won’t change that... I actually checked out his website and found another page of his about homosexuality so I know what he thinks about it all. Frankly I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, why are so many Catholics hellbent on demonising, curbing and “fixing” homosexuality? What did gay people ever do to them? Is it any wonder our young gay Catholics are either leaving the church or worse still, committing suicide?...

You [and Fr P] don’t know anything about being gay, or the gay community, or the homophobia, hate and prejudice that we face each day. So it’s like all these people are talking, but they don’t know what they’re talking about...

The point of this letter is that I don’t want to fight. I don’t have the time, energy or strength. You will always win because you’re stronger than me, and I always hold back and let you [win] a little because I love you more than I hate your homophobic beliefs. I don’t think you realise the power you have over me. You’re one of a very small group whose “approval” (for want of a better word) means the world to me. Everyone else can go fuck themselves for all I care but it you that matters to me... I don’t want us to devolve into one of those siblings that never speak... but I can see it happening unless we come to some kind of accord...

This has to stop. I love you Sister. Despite what you think of me, and of what I do or believe. And I know you love me just as much as I love you. But I’m never going to be the man you want me to be, I can’t, so you’re going to have to love me as I am, for WHO I am and WHAT I am... I’m gay, Sister, just like God made me. Please try to accept that.

Te quiero,
Daniel.

It will be intersting to see what comes next.

Porridge anyone?

This morning I woke up at 1030am, to the sounds to Triple J. I promptly hit snooze. I was woken ten minutes later; and hit snooze again. By 1130 the radio stopped bugging me and by about one in the afternoon, I woke to the sound of my mobile phones beeping because of an incoming message.

After about fifteen minutes, I got up and wandered outside. Two things struck me immediately: firstly, it felt as if the temperature was below zero, and secondly, the entire courtyard was covered in what looked like small white petals. I was just thinking how pretty it looked when I remembered that there are no trees in the courtyard and it’s winter, so if even if there were trees, they wouldn’t have shed their petals.

I put some shoes on and wandered over to what appeared to be the epicentre and discovered, with not a little consternation, that the petals were in fact rolled oats. I wandered back to the house as The Optimist materialised in the back hallway. I looked at him with a look that said, “Dude, have you seen the courtyard?” He looked back, with a look that said, “Yeh, man, I have and fucked if I know what happened!” I nodded slightly in the direction of The Space Cadet’s room and gave him a look that said, “Well clearly it was the Space Cadet, drunk and off his head, doing some kind of primal dance that included rolled oats.” He considered this for a second and disappeared into the house. I followed him and asked if his rolled oats were missing. They weren’t, luckily, so it seems The Space Cadet had the decency to use his own rolled oats in filling our yard with cereal.

And now, with the rain, we have porridge.

Dan’s irritating diet

Since my appointment with Dr NT, I have embarked on what I affectionately term “Dan’s irritating diet” (or, since I love acronyms so, “DID”). It is yeast free, sugar free, and largely taste free, at least in the snack department. I have to admit that while I’m not happy about it in the least, it hasn’t been as bad as I expected it to be when I was first instructed to undertake it. I do, however, reserve my birthright as a gay man to be a drama queen and complain about it. It can be summarised into three lists… each with conflicting advice.

LIST 1: Yeast free (and, it seems, mould-free)
No white bread, white flour, vinegar, mushrooms, yoghurt, mature cheeses, vegemite, alcohol, “herbal” coffees. Instead of white bread, I can have yeast-free bread (which is the size of a house-brick and about $5 a loaf) and instead of vegemite, some weird pretend-vegemite that no doubt tastes awful and is also expensive. You would also be very surprised how many biscuits, cakes and baked goods contain yeast. Very. Surprised.

LIST 2: Sugar-free (and, it seems, taste-free)
No sugar, glucose, dextrose (often used in small goods), or excess fructose (either from actual fruit, fruit juice or as an additive). So no sugar in tea or cooking, instead I have to use some kind of artificial sweetener, all of which taste like something out of a first year chem test-tube; no lollies, cakes, biscuits or regular soft drinks, instead I have to get sugar-free sweets and (gasp) diet drinks. To appease my caffeine addiction, I have been forced into the unenviable position of drinking coke zero; I don’t care what they say, you can still taste the sweetener. There is one small snag: caffeine is on list three. While shopping with Janek, he pointed out the caffeine-free, sugar-free coke. Against my better judgement, I bought a bottle. It’s probably a bit redundant to say that it tastes nothing like real coke. I’m so upset.

LIST 3: No “rheumatic” or “headache” foods
No tomato, eggplant, chili, pepper (capsicum), potato, beef/veal, citrus, kiwifruit, passionfruit. No cocoa, caffeine or peanuts. I was a little sceptical about this one to be honest, but on Friday night, in a fit of the munchies, I consumed half a jar of sun-dried tomatoes... and woke up with insane killer leg pains the next morning. I take issue with the caffeine... I may have to put my foot down with Dr NT on this one.

It’s not all bad news, I guess, I mean I’ve come up with some pretty good recipes that work within these parameters, but it’s still quite an adjustment. The sugar-and-yeast-free fruit cookies that we found are delicious (if a bit on the pricy side), and Janek has even managed to surprise me with sugar-free chocolate...

If it works, then I’ll do it with a smile and no complaining... Promise.

Sugar, honey, honey

Wednesday was unpleasant. Which isn’t to say that it was totally abysmal; though it was unpleasant, it was unpleasant while in good company—perhaps, in that case, it was one or two shades lighter than abysmal. I could have done without it, nonetheless.

I was woken, rudely, by the radio at 730am. I moved at around eight, and was up and gone by nine, and at the pathologist by 930. After the preliminary greetings and medicare card checks, I was shown to a room with a bed, a chair, a cupboard (housing all manner of unspeakable torture instruments), and a little trolley (housing needles, syringes, vials and other items designed only to inflict pain on poor sick people). Simply being in the room made me uneasy; I lay down on the bed.

The main reason for my visit to this hellish corner of Broadway was to undergo the terror of a glucose tolerance test. If anyone out there is considering one for shits and giggles, I advise against it. If only for the crap you have to drink before you begin. I was given a small bottle that held perhaps 300ml of green liquid. Upon tasting it I found the liquid to taste exactly like cheap lime fizzy, only flat and warm and much sweeter than usual. I found out later that it contained 75g of glucose. This, The Optimist and I worked out several days later, is the same amount as one and a half regular sized blocks of chocolate (or one family sized block, no doubt). The whole point is to make a diagnosis of hypoglycaemia; hence the sugar-free diet, and the sudden presence of coke zero in my fridge (which I detest, despite, loathe, hate and revile with every fibre of my being).

After drinking the strange lime liquid, six vials of blood were drawn. I will spare you the gruelling details—partly in case any of you are as queasy about these things as I am, partly because I shut my eyes, clicked my heals and said “there’s no place like home” three times in an effort not to think about the blood as it left my body. Though I wasn’t expecting to be transported through space to my bed or, even better, to the double bed at my parents place, I was a little disappointed when I opened my eyes and found myself to be in the pathology clinic that I had been in when I closed my eyes.

Then, at intervals of thirty minutes, I had more blood drawn. For four hours. When I left, at about two in the afternoon, I had nine needle marks in my arms. The first half hour was fine, the sugar high wasn’t too bad, I sat in the waiting room and read my novel, and I even thought to myself “see, this isn’t too bad, you can do this no problems”. Perhaps that was my fatal move. After the next needle I had to lie down, like now, so I lay there for the next hour, listening to music and lolling around like a drunkard. At some point the sugar high bottomed out and I had no energy to do anything. I was asked, at about this point, if I could sit up in the waiting room as the bed was needed for an ECG test. Rather than telling them to fuck themselves with a splintery rake, I got up and shuffled out the waiting room… and shuffled back as soon as the coast was clear.

I felt so devoid of energy. It was quite scary, in fact, because it was a glimpse back to a past in which I lay in bed all day, every day, because I couldn’t do much else.

Two o’clock came and Janek came to pick me up. I floated through the shopping centre, leaning heavily on my stick (and silently praising its many, many virtues) until we reached the car. He drove me home, put me to bed, and lay with me until I felt a little more human. I don’t remember specifics of Wednesday afternoon, only fever-dream like snippets, but from what I remember he sat with me and watched TV while I recuperated. The wiped feeling has persisted, but I’m starting to feel a little better.

This fucken test better have some breakthrough results or I am going to beat Dr NT with my bottle of coke zero.

Dude, we're so awesome

True to form, I was the last to figure it out. When I started talking to Kate about it, she immediately said “No shit Sherlock… I’ve been WAITING for you to have this conversation with me!!!” Even Lance, a seven year old who resides in a different state to me, had it figured before I had. I really need to work on my inner detective skills and learn to interpret the signs a little more accurately and much quicker.

Janek and I have been hanging out a lot, whether on campus or at my place watching videos etc. He hasn’t been well so I’ve even had him sleeping there during the day while I gallivanted around learning and being the model student. On Friday, I called him at about 3pm and asked if he’d like to pop round to watch a video because, well, there was no reason… I just wanted to spend time with him.

He arrived at about the same time as a sudden spasm of back pain so I couldn’t get comfortable sitting up. I lay down, with the electric blanket on full blast to try (rather vainly as it would turn out) to relieve the pain. Janek lay down next to me, our bodies pressed up together on my tiny single bed, and his head on my shoulder. We watched the movie and then lay there talking, me topless by this point. I realise that at this point this story is beginning to sound like bad porn fiction, but I swear that (on my part at least) it was all innocent. As we spoke, I had a sudden spasm of pain run across my left shoulder blade; he asked if I was ok and held my hand. Anyway, the time came for him to leave so I accompanied him outside and bid him farewell. And then it hit me. I have feelings for him.

I jumped on MSN. Kate was online, thankfully:
Dan: Kate!
Kate: Hey babycakes! How’s your day been?
Dan: I think I have feelings for Janek.
Kate: No shit Sherlock! I’ve been WAITING for you to have this conversation with me!!!!
Dan: As he was leaving today it hit me. Fuck I’m dumb sometimes!
Kate: Dan… he wants you too ya pair of fools!
Dan: I know!!!
Kate: It’s so funny… I have known for AGES… and I have said zip and you worked it out FINALLY for yourself!

I smsed him and asked him to come back here, that I had something to say. He wrote back that he had just got home but would come as soon as he could. An hour later he was on my doorstep. He came in and I told him that I knew he still had feelings for me (he looked at me with a look somewhere between confused and non-committal) and that I knew he did because Kate had told me, and that I liked him too but I was too nervous to do anything. He pulled me in and held me tight… I lifted up my head and looked at his face—beaming like a sun on laughing gas—and kissed him. Unfortunately our blissful reverie was cut short by the fact that his brother was outside waiting for him in the car, so he had to leave after about twenty minutes. Then it was my turn to grin like an over-enthusiastic clown doctor.

Later that night I went into the kitchen for some water and bumped into The Optimist. We talked a little then he too beamed at me and announced that he had kissed The Girl From Down The Street. “Ahhh,” I said, “I was wondering when you two would get together. I see the way you are around each other.” It turns out I can see these things in other people, just not in myself. “Well, I kissed Janek today,” I told him.

“Dude,” he replied, “we’re so awesome!”

Just like God

The other week, when I was at The Stables Theatre with Janek to see Colder, I saw a postcard. It was divided into nine sections, each with a photo of a sculpture or installation artwork in just about every vivid colour you could fathom. I knew Lance would like it so I grabbed a copy and sent it to him. I was chatting to Kate last night and she told me that Lance had received the postcard during the week and said to her:

“You know...Uncle Dan is just like God in a way; he’s always full of surprises, just when you least expect them...”

This totally made up for the letter that Sister sent me during the week, arriving on the one year anniversary of having told her I am gay. How is that for lousy yet freaky timing? I will be writing about the letter, its content and my reply (which took four days and the input from three others to write) tonight because I really have procrastinated enough today. I realise that I’m telling this story somewhat backwards (well, totally backwards) but Lance’s offhand remark has bouyed my spirits and had me grinning like an idiot ever since I was told.