Two decades ago I sent out a project entitled ‘Apology’. Back then, my audience consisted of about five close friends who received my work through the postal service, as this was right before we all had e-mail. It was more fun that way: I could send out offensive things and have a few days to regret it before the damage was delivered. Which is basically what happened with that project. After a few months of getting battered by friends and family alike, I decided to go the usual passive-aggressive route (with a decided emphasis on the second half of the hyphenate) and address it in my writing. And theirs.

For ‘Apology’, I used Plato’s definition of the word. Unlike what most of us think of an apology, my version was a throwback to its original meaning – a defense. Over the years I’d amassed a decent collection of condemnations against me. Most were from people I’d never even met. The ones that mattered – and the ones that hurt the most – were those that came from the people whom I thought knew and understood me. Many of these were letters of blame bandied about in anger, but at the core of them was a simple critique of me and my lifestyle. Not so much my gay lifestyle, but a lifestyle of honesty and bluntness, and perhaps not-always-popular-opinion made unabashedly known. I was hated, and criticized, for being myself. Not always without reason, but often. And so my ‘Apology’ was born. Birthed from an exasperation of being attacked (you should see what people write to me on FaceBook and Twitter – I may be a bitch, but I rarely do it on someone else’s wall), it came from a dark place, an angry and defensive place, and as such it alienated just about everyone. (When you only have five viewers, it’s probably not the wisest move to make them all mad.) But I knew I needed to be alone then, so I did it.

On each page of the Project, I copied and printed out the worst letters that people had written to me (including all my friends who were about to receive it). On the back of each page I wrote a response to each of the accusations, outwardly apologizing for whatever bad things I had supposedly done, while rather transparently mocking such attacks. It was petty and childish – and it got the point across. But being right is a lonely place to be.

Twenty years later, I’m still fending off unfair characterizations, unprovoked attacks, and misplaced blame. I think I’m a little better at dealing with them now. Yet every once in a while I feel it may be time for a New Apology. (And before the next volley of criticism comes this way, please remember that no matter how cruel you think I sometimes am to others, no matter how cutting and critical, it is nothing compared to the atrocities I inflict upon myself. You don’t need to believe it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.)

Last Sunday, when returning from Boston, I drove through the thickest fog I’ve ever seen in my life. The foot of snow from the storm a few days prior was turning directly into fog as temperatures soared into the 60’s. It made for a few wondrous, and dangerous, patches of greatly-reduced visibility. Fog has always proved dangerously questionable for me, both in real life and in fiction, but this one was affecting everyone. Cars would disappear suddenly, enveloped by the water vapor, then the road would go, and with it the guidelines – and to be plunged into blindness so quickly is a terror you don’t want to know.

It wasn’t so much the disconcerting lack of guideposts and signs – it was the rush into the unknown. It felt like no matter how much I slowed it was still coming too quickly, like I might crash into some roadblock or stranded vehicle without warning or notice. Eventually I caught up to another car with its hazards on, going about my speed but even more cautiously. I stayed close until the fog dispersed. It was a relief to see that someone else was out there, that someone else was scared. We parted when we could see again, and when another patch came along I was already well-past my foul-weather friend.

From my family to you and yours, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. If you’re stopping by here on this day of all days, it means you’re part of my family too.

Having worked in retail for a few years, and having been quite good at it, I know first-hand how difficult it can be for sales associates in the holiday season. I’ve been yelled at and treated rudely, ignored and abused, pushed aside and shoved, but I never faltered in my smile and robotic politeness. (In my younger years, I had more patience and tolerance for those things, especially when a job depended on it.) For those reasons, I have a soft spot in my heart for those retail folks who are just trying to do their job and not be blasted for it.

That said, I can also tell when a retail associate is just being rude and dismissive, or shouldn’t be on the floor at a certain point. A guy by the name of Brad, the supposed Tommy Hilfiger expert at Macy’s in Downtown Boston, seemed to have reached that point when Kira and I were waiting in his line. After standing there for a few minutes, and grateful to be in a line that didn’t seem very long, we were told that we would need to find another line (he suddenly had a dilemma of some sort that was never fully explained). It sounded like he was just exasperated by his job at that moment, which I get, but the way to handle it is to suck it up and tell anyone else that the line was closed after that.

Oddly enough, Kira was more upset by this than I was, loudly stating that it wasn’t very good customer service (!) and that he should have told us that before we were waiting in line. Which was a good point – none of this would have been an issue but for the fact that he threw us out of the line after we’d been standing in it.

We found another line, with a much friendlier associate, who asked how our shopping experience was going. So I told her, not in a nasty way, but in a constructively critical manner (because if you offend someone as normally meek and sweet as Kira, you’ve really acted out of line). This associate said that she was not a fan of Brad either, so I mentioned she could feel free to tell her manager about the incident. Luckily, or unluckily for Brad, the manager was right there, so I told her about it directly, and said that I understood what it’s like working at this time of the year, but there are better ways to handle a line of three people. She thanked me for letting her know (I really wasn’t mean about it) and assured us she would be talking to Brad. Whether or not she does is beyond my control or care at this point. We thanked her for listening and went on our merry way. All’s well that ends well. (Sorry, Brad.)

The shortest day of the year just passed, so it’s only going to get lighter and brighter from here on out. That’s a happy sign, even if it means winter has just begun. The last week was a relatively quiet one as the holiday reaches its climax in a few short days. I’m working on an end-of-the-year pair of posts to fully recap the year that came before, but I may just post a few pics and let them speak for themselves. There’s much to be done, but first the usual Monday look back.

Tis’ the season for beating the drum, and beating the bishop.

Eating of The Cock.

The Madonna Timeline was seasonally appropriate, with ‘Masterpiece‘.

Hunks were decked out in all their shirtlessness, and several nude male celebrities made their debut here, including Will Smith, Ben Foden, Brandon Beemer, Brian Shimansky, Nolan Funk, and Konstantinos Frantzis.

Holiday memories of staircases and ornaments, and the year without Christmas.

Finally, the first photos of the kitchen-in-progress.

It doesn’t bode well that it feels like we’ve been having winter for several weeks already. That today is the actually starting day is quite upsetting. At times like this, I find it’s best to put your faith in God. Jesus take the wheel. Let go and Let God. The price is right. Blessed Be. Don’t go for second best, baby. Jesus is the reason for the season. Too blessed to be stressed. YOLO.

(See what the holidays are doing to me?)

As for the first day of winter, I’ll be in Boston for it, writing out my wishes and burning them from the bathroom window.