Teasing and combing my white trash roots

When I was a wee lad, we were PWT. There’s no doubt about it. My dad was a military dad; got a very little paycheck in exchange for serving his country. While it wasn’t enough to cover “rent”, our housing was paid for by Uncle Sam. So the pennies that he received month after month paid for groceries, electricity, car, and little else. I don’t ever recall “suffering” as a child. I distinctly recall vacations. In fact, living in Europe for so long was sort of LIKE a vacation. I distinctly remember getting my G.I. Joe with the kung-fu grip and the Steve Austin a/k/a Six Million Dollar Man (with the roll-up sleeve of “skin” on his arm so you could see his bionics) for the holidays or birthdays. I had a bike. None of the three of us (me n’ my sibs) “suffered” without. The one area where we did suffer, however, was eating. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t attain this distinct panda-bear shape by starving my whole life. We ate. But what the hell was that shit?

B.J. (or “Before Jed”) I dated a boy named Kerry. Kerry also grew up PWT on a cotton farm in Lubbock, Texas. To entertain ourselves we decided once a month that one of us would make one of the most awfulest dinners from our childhoods that we could remember and called it “White trash dinner night”. It was fun times. I couldn’t play this same game with Jed, because Jed grew up on Galveston Island, and everyone knows that if it’s an “Island”, it can be trashy. Right? Wrong. In fact, Jed and I do experience some of the more favorite culinary disasters from his childhood too. Yes boo kat. You’re not escaping my blog!

I’ll begin the humiliation with myself. While growing up, my mother could make 3 things, and only 3 things. It’s no secret that the cooking duties were left to my father. Some people just weren’t meant to cook, and Barb was one of those people. One of her specialties was “Spam Salad”. Why they called it a “salad”, I’ll never know. There wasn’t one redeeming healthy quality about this “salad”. It had everyone’s favorite canned meat product; a hefty helping of mayonnaise and egg yolks; noodles, peas, and oh yes, did I mention a full-cup of mayonnaise? Her other dish was “Tuna Salad”. Again with this “salad”. Who did she think she was kidding? THERE WAS NO LETTUCE. Her tuna salad was just like her spam salad. Except whereas the spam salad would be placed back in the refrigerator to chill after it was prepared, the tuna salad would be placed in the oven to heat up before it was served. Now that I think about it, the tuna salad MIGHT have had a can of cream of mushroom soup added to everything else to make it extra special. If Barb was going to be REALLY decadent, she would crumble is couple of fists fulls of Ruffles potato chips on top of the tuna salad before baking it. It was, as I recall, delicious.



Kerry, as I mentioned, grew up on a farm. His first (and last) attempt at recreating meals from his childhood failed miserably. In fact, that son-of-a-bitch is lucky I didn’t call the police for attempted murder after his dinner. His favorite childhood meal was “pan-fried steak”. He prepared this meal with all the giddiness of a school girl receiving her first “pin”. What he sat down in front of me wasn’t fit for a dog. Imagine my shock, pain, and horror as I cut into this meat and it disintegrated into a cloud of dust. “Kerry, sweetie,” I said to him, “WE HAVE REFRIGERATION HERE IN THE CITY. YOU DON’T HAVE TO COOK YOUR MEAT SO IT CAN BE CARBON DATED HERE.” Yes, apparently in the back woods of Lubbock it was customary to hang your meat up on a hook outside the back door and then cut off the pieces you needed to cook. This lack of refrigeration required that you cook the shit (and moisture) out of your food so that you didn’t die from bacterial poisoning.



Jed grew up thinking all food came from a box or a can. When we first started dating, I made him one of his now favorite dishes, “Freddy Surprise”. It’s basically pork chops with a tomato pepper sauce and garlic mashed potatoes. Jed was shock and surprised to learn that mashed potatoes didn’t really come from a box as his mother had led him to believe. You can honestly get mashed potatoes FROM a potato.



One night I had asked Jed what he wanted for dinner. He said, “Macaroni & Cheese”. So I headed down to my local grocery store and purchased some noodles, heavy cream, cheddar cheese, some bread crumbs, and butter and went home to throw together a master piece of fresh, home-made macaroni & cheese. After an hour or so, Jed started getting antsy. Wondering what on earth could possibly be taking so long. Pacing back and forth through the kitchen. I finally called him to the table to eat and he looked at my beautiful creation as if I had just shat on his plate. “What’s this?” he asked. “It’s macaroni and cheese. Isn’t that what you wanted?” “It’s not orange.” Was his reply. Apparently I had no idea that Mac N’ Cheese was only acceptable to Jed if made with “orange powder”. TO THIS DAY, he prefers Orange powdery mac n’ cheese over the real thing. Go figure.



One of my favorite things to make in my house is some good ole Frito Chili Pie. YUMMY. White trash? YOU BETCHA. Delicious? I ain’t gonna lie. It’s the bomb-digity-bomb-bomb. The first time I made it for Jed he asked, “where’ the rice?” WHA? RICE? IN FRITO CHILI PIE? “We always put rice in our Frito Chili Pie when I was growing up,” says Jed. So I don’t want my boo kat to suffer. I say, “HOLD UP, WAIT A MINUTE.” I go in the kitchen to put on a pot of rice. This won’t take any time at all my love. After 5 or so minutes, Jed (again) starts getting antsy with me.

“Where’s my dinner?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted rice?”

“Are you making rice?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“Jed, rice take exactly 25 minutes to make.”

“No it doesn’t, it only takes a minute. It says so on the box.”



OH HELL NO! Minute rice? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? To this day Jed STILL refuses to learn how to make rice properly. I have told him ad nauseam how to properly make rice. I have showed him. I have made him read the directions. He can’t do it. What’s worse, he can’t tell the difference between “real rice” and “re-hydrated rice product”. In fact, he insists on calling Minute Rice “real rice”.

So there you have it folks. Some good eats to think about for this weekend. Do let me know your favorite childhood food traumas and whether or not you’ve tried to replicate them as an adult. And, as always, have a fantastic weekend.

Goin’ back to colli’ to colli’ to colli’…goin’ back to colli’, uh, no I don’t think so?

(F)reddy’s world is, once again, in a transition. I ain’t crying, nor am I looking for “ohhhhs” and “ahhhhs”. To steal from a well known parable, “It’s in my nature.” I’ve always been in a world of transition. I think transition is where I feel the most comfortable.

Now some of you know about my past work lives, some of you don’t. I have to say, for never having had gone to college in the past (GASP!), I’ve done very well for myself. I’ve been, in a word, lucky. I went to nursing school in Oklahoma right out of high school to get my nursing license. The good thing, for me at the time, was it was a means to finish something quickly and gave me the opportunity to make bank quickly. The bad news was, in Oklahoma, the nursing program wasn’t “college level course-work”.

19 was a weird time for me. I had graduated the nursing program, had a great job making very good money for “kids” my age. I was handing out narcotics to patients before I was even able to drink…legally. I was fortunate in my networking to have become friends of the director of a nursing home that I had done an internship in, and he gave me my first big break immediately after graduating from nursing school.

A year and a half later I decided I couldn’t “LIVE” in Oklahoma anymore. I was watching an episode of Oprah (BEFORE she “discovered her spirit) in which she referred to Austin as “The San Francisco of the southwest” because of it’s very large, open gay community. I decided to leave my friends and family behind and move to Austin. I knew one person, Kay, that lived here, so the thought of coming to a new place with no friends, no family, and no support wasn’t all that scary to me. Kay left Austin 3 months after I arrived, and wouldn’t return for another 5 years. By that time, however, I had already fallen in love with my new home.

Not knowing anything about the city when I moved here; where the ‘good’ places to work were; where the ‘good’ places to live were, I decided to A) get an apartment, as opposed to buying a house, and B) get a job with a temp nursing agency, as opposed to getting a full-time job and hating it later. One of the places I worked with most frequently was a spinal cord injury/closed head injury rehab at one of the local hospitals here. The director of the unit, Pam, liked my work style so much that she eventually offered me a full-time gig, and I continued working there for the next 8 years. Pam, as Kay did, left the hospital 3 months after I started.

After 8 years of working with my beloved spinal cord/head injury patients, I decided it was time for me to move on. On a whim, I woke up on a random Sunday morning and read the newspaper, which I NEVER did. I flipped to the classifieds to check out the nursing opportunities. The third ad I read, I’ll never forget, said, “Tired of working weekends, nights, and holidays?” Yes, yes, and YES! “RN with spinal cord injury/closed head injury experience” HOLY SHIT, FOR REALS? “needed for busy downtown law firm. Interested candidates should forward their resumes to Pam ____.” WHO GETS A WANT AD LIKE THIS? The ad was fully intended JUST for me. I was tired of working weekends, nights, and holidays. I had 8 years of spinal cord injury and closed head injury experience. And, the kicker, PAM was the same Pam that loved my work the full eight years prior and offered me a full-time position at the hospital.

I picked up my little phone and called Pam up at home. We had managed to stay in contact over those 8 long years. I said, “Hey Pam. I couldn’t help but notice an ad in the paper. However, I also noticed that it said “RN”, but as you know I’m just an LVN. Does this person need to be an RN?” And she said, “It would depend on the LVN. Do you happen to know someone who might be interested?” And I said, “I DO!”

Now, I wasn’t GIVEN the job. However, I was GIVEN an opportunity to come in and interview for the job because of Pam’s recommendation. I STILL had to meet with the attorneys, I STILL had to impress. Pam had told me that the firm was a very conservative environment, and she mentioned that one of the things that I would have to do if I was serious about the job was cut my hair…which I hadn’t done since I left Oklahoma City. As you might imagine, after 8 years of no haircuts, I was GOREGOUS. I went out THAT DAY, and got my first haircut in 8 years. Surprise, I was STILL gorgeous!

The interview, while lasting 3 hours, wasn’t the most fantastic interview I had ever been on. In case you don’t know any attorneys, they’re not big on time or conversation. Pam assured me I did well, and told me to keep my chin up.

A week went by, I touched base with Pam and she informed me they were still interviewing. I thanked her for the opportunity, and told her to keep in touch. A month went by, no phone call. Nearly two more months went by when I got a call from Pam and she let me know that I had “nailed it”. She then said, “Now about the salary. I don’t know how much you’ll be needing, but unfortunately all they’re willing to offer you is x”. I shit my pants. Literally. No, seriously shit my pants. “X”, was exactly double what I had been making at the hospital. And I said, “Well, if that’s all they’ll offer, I guess I’ll have to deal with it.” Two weeks later I started with the firm as a nurse/paralegal.

It’s now been some 10 years later, and I’ve really had a great time at the firm. I’ve made some really good friends here. There’s a nature of a firm wherein the work ebbs and flows. I’m not nearly as nervous about it today as I was 4 or 5 years ago when the work slowed down. However, since January the work has slowed down so much that I can’t help but feeling nervous. It’s my opinion that firms of this size aren’t in the business to hemorrhage money! The problem with finding a job for me now is I couldn’t possibly go back to the hospital setting and lose half the money. I can’t get a job as a “paralegal”, cuz I never went to “college”, thus I don’t have the degree they’re looking for. (SERIOUSLY FOLKS, doesn’t work experience count for sumpthin’?)

(F)reddy realizes he’s no longer a spring-chicken. 9 times out of 10 I’m in bed by 915 in the evenings. But it’s time to do something. So last week I went up to my local community college and cold-called their entrance exam. I was actually quite proud of myself. For having been out of school for some 20 years now, I did okay. If I’m being honest, I really wish I had paid more attention to that new-fangled math that I swore I’d never need.

For the first time in 20 years, well, really, ever, (F)reddy is going to college. I’ve gotten myself enrolled for summer classes starting later this month, and I’m a bit nervous. I spent, literally, 4 and a half hours yesterday registering for 2 classes. Here’s how my morning panned out:

0700: Log on to college website and enter my eID, no record of such student.
0705: After repeated attempts in various styles of upper/lower case letters, I call the help desk.
0758: A LIVE body finally answers. I explain my situation, they say, “Oh, I see whomever entered you forgot to refresh you. I’ve refreshed you, please wait 10 minutes and try again.”
0808: Try again, no mas. STILL no record of me.
0809-1015: Rinse, reuse, repeat.
1017: “WELCOME TO ACC REGISTRATION HOME PAGE”!!! Yippee, free at las, free at las, thank god almighty, I’m free at las.”

I pick the two classes the student advisor recommended for a “person of (my) advanced age.” I click “submit”, and it says, “Academic classes do not match enrolled academic level.” WHAT?

So I go back through the entire process again, same message. I then go through the entire process again, but this time, rather than pick the “academic” plan, I pick the “continuing education” plan. The message I get this time is, “these courses not available for continuing education plan.” WHAT THE EVER-LOVING-HELL? There are only two options for enrolling…Academic Plan, and Continuing education plan.

So at 1045 I send an email to the student advisor I met with and said, very simply, “Could you please let me know what kind of student I am. I’ve tried to enroll for the two classes you advised me on and for both type plans it tells me I’m ineligible for those classes.” She shoots me off an email some 30 minutes later and tells me that she’s, “maintenanced (me), and that I should be good to go now.”

So now being “refreshed” and “maintenanced”, I try one more time. And a mere 10 minutes later I am officially enrolled…with serious doubts about whether or not I’m going to be able to pull this off at my “advanced age.” I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, but keep me in your thoughts, regardless.

Don we now our gay apparel

I have a somewhat embarrassing confession to make. I have personally ordered from the International Male Catalogue. In case you haven't checked out out the Catalogue, you should (www.internationalmale.com). It's embarrassing because A) I think 1/3 of 1% of people out there can wear any of the clothes in this magazine, and B) I certainly wasn't in that winning percentage! While the clothes, or lack of, look good on the models in the magazine, you MUST possess certain attributes which, sadly, Freddy didn't. I'm not talking about my dick y'all, I GOTS that. No. I'm talking about the six-pack abs, the 16" discs a/k/a "pecs", or the bulging biceps. Okay. Maybe I had the biceps, but my abs were more like a keg than a six pack and we may as well just call my pecs what they are, moobs. You got to love a magazine that has an underwear section called "Problem Solvers"…IE: Your dick is so small, we can keep you from looking like a Ken-doll.

Now I'm not saying that I ordered from the catalogue last week. No, dear readers, it was many, MANY moons ago. I was very single at the time and I was, what you could call a "gym bunny". Though I never lifted weights, I did spend many a long afternoon in the gym on an aerobic type machine and/or a step-class or three. I was taking a trip to San Francisco under the mistaken impression (from having watched Full House on television) that San Francisco was a warm, sunny, metropolis. Who knew that it only got into the highs of the 80's during the summer with lows dipping down into the 40's when the sun went down. I should have watched Miami Vice instead.

So I purchased a pair of shorts and a swimsuit for my adventure out west. Please hold all snickering to a minimum.



The shorts, as you can see, are still in "high fashion" today. These are the EXACT same shorts I purchased 13 years ago. I don't recall them being this long though. They did have the split up the side, and nothing screams "gay" like a pair of Daisy Dukes with a 2 inch split up the side of your leg. To accentuate the outfit, I often wore these shorts with Camel hiking boots (which not only showed off my amazing calves, but also made the hem of the shorts look that much higher!) and a brightly colored knit sleeveless button up sweater vest without anything on underneath it. HOT, I tell you, NOT.



I also purchased this lovely swimsuit thinking that I would be spending an ample amount of time in the warm ocean waters of the Pacific. HOLY JESUS. Do people actually get in that water? I've had Cherry Limeaide Slushes warmer than the waters of the Pacific. I don't know what I was thinking with this swimsuit. It was not quite a Speedo, because they weren't briefs. Additionally, the ones I purchased were as brightly colored as the sweater vest I had to accompany my shorts. My "jewels" looked FANTASTIC in this suit, however combined with my keg, it wasn't a pretty sight. I did manage to attract some attention wearing these things, but I'm sure I ended up on some "what the hell was he thinking" website.



On a trip through a mall in Wichita, Kansas with an old friend of mine, I stopped in at one of those mall leather shops. I forget the name of it now, but I think they used to be a national chain. It wasn’t one of those leather shops that sold assless chaps and ball-gags. Rather they had all styles of leather jackets. Why I thought I needed a warm leather jacket in the ‘Bible belt’ of Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, I’ll never know. It’s not like it ever got cold enough to wear it. It did, however, look stunning on the dance floor when I was able to get all the fringe moving at once. I didn’t get the shiny polished version above. No, I got the black suede. I did, however, look JUST like the boy above. Except I was 140 pounds lighter, I had hair, and I hadn’t yet been able to grow facial hair.



Lastly, when I was in Junior High, Wham had just come out (not figuratively) with George Michael and his dual pierced ears. As we all know by now, Freddy was full on Guhay at that point and followed George's example and pierced both of my lobes, along with the cartilage at the top of my left ear. High style. I may have even owned this sweater. It was back in the day before Brian Austin Green made having both ears acceptable for straight men and the saying was still, "Left is right and right is wrong." I think that applied to the ear piercing for men anyway. Now that I think about it, maybe it was my political leanings??? I'm not sure, I'll get back to you on that.