JUST VOTE

I lived in the U.S. for sixteen years and never voted. 

 

Sure, I was underaged for the first several years, having moved from Ontario, Canada to East Texas when I was thirteen. But then came the years from eighteen to twenty-nine where I couldn’t vote because I was a legal immigrant—a permanent resident—but not a citizen. The rest of my family became citizens and I know they all vote (three Republican voters, one Independent). I had no say in Presidents Reagan, Bush or Clinton getting elected. 

 

I would have loved to have voted, but I had moved kicking and screaming from Ontario. I was proudly Canadian. It was the one part of my identity that seemed fixed as I struggled to figure out and then live according to my sexual orientation.

 

To teach in U.S. public schools, I had to declare an intention to become a citizen. I had to show that things were in-process. That declaration gave me a year of using my Texas university degree to teach in a public elementary school. But I’d done nothing to move things forward during that time. I didn’t want citizenship to be about my job; I felt it needed to be a bigger, deeper decision.

 

I don’t recall that anyone was awaiting proof I’d taken a step forward, but I began to look for other options as I prepared to give up teaching. I moved to Malibu and went to law school, an excellent step for coming out at least. (Hello, West Hollywood!) There was much to like about California, a place where I connected far more than in Texas. I knew after the first year of law school that practicing law would not be my lifelong career, but I stuck it out (mostly because I didn’t have a Plan B), got the degree and worked for a couple of years as a lawyer. 

 

I might have stayed in L.A., might have tried to get an entry-level position in the entertainment industry after touching base with a key contact, but the city wore me down. First, the Rodney King riots in April-May 1992 (during which I got shot at), killing sixty-three and then the Northridge earthquake of January 1994, killing fifty-seven. These events plus the general dog-eat-dog tone I felt in the city wore me down. I quit both L.A. and law. I moved to Canada, settling in Vancouver. 

 

Youth won.
(The one on the left.)

The only national election I participated in was the U.S. Post Office’s 1992 presentation of two options for an Elvis Presley stamp—either a classic hip-shaking, thinner, younger Elvis or a slightly fuller-faced image of Elvis from later in his career. I can’t even recall which one I voted for. The stakes just weren’t that great. 

 

Not like now. Not like this election, not just for president but for Senate and House seats, for governor positions and for all sorts of state and local posts.

 

I could say—and you could too—that, as a Canadian, it’s none of my business. It’s America’s decision. But it matters in Canada. We often dissociate ourselves from American matters, but they impact us on a daily basis. Canadian culture is not that different. We are influenced. Our neighbor to the south (along with the state of Alaska) has a population nine times greater than us. In many ways, the U.S. overshadows us. 

 

Politically, there’s some copycat business happening based on Republican politics and the larger-than-life, can’t-mute-him Donald Trump. The province of Alberta seems to desperately want to be Texas’ cousin. The leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, Pierre Poilievre, has adopted hateful, smarmy soundbites that seem to come straight from Trump’s playbook (if Trump actually has a playbook). Trump and the MAGA movement have impacted not just the U.S. for the worse in terms of political discourse and basic civility, they’ve gained a whole lot of followers in Canada. Attention-seekers, I feel. People who like their politics to have an entertainment element akin to WWE wrestling.

 

I am exhausted from the lead-up to this election. Frankly, I’ve been worn down from Trump being Trump since 2015 when the media started seeing value in reporting every outrageous comment he made—increased sales, viewers and click-bait. The lies, the hate and the crassness should have led to a quick dismissal of the candidate but his brand of politicking has only become more popular. We are devaluing society while seemingly embracing the don’t-give-a-fuck mindset. Let the cesspool bubble at the top. 

 

I’ve begged my saner Republican friends and relatives in the U.S. to back off the Trump vote. I realize the Harris campaign has rallied to get Republicans to vote for the Democratic candidate just this once—for the sake of sending a message about civility, for holding up the basic principles of American democracy—and, yes, I hope many people do this. It’s the right kind of message to send to Trump, MAGA and Trump copycats (yes, you, Mr. Poilievre). 

 

But there is another viable option. Longtime Republicans can leave the choice for president blank. This is for people who can’t stomach Trump but also can’t espouse the Democrats’ platform. Let a vote Trump counted on be denied. 

 

Of course, it would be a rare Republican to read my blog and heed my advice. (Heed it, please.)

 

If any Americans read this, a weekly post on Aging Gayly, it’s far more likely to be someone who is centrist or left-leaning. Nine hundred words into this essay, I’ll repeat the one thing you should take away from this: VOTE!

 

If you’ve done so, encourage those fence-sitters who don’t think it matters, don’t want to sacrifice precious time in their day and/or don’t feel Harris will be progressive enough. Surely, her positions come hella closer than Trump’s. (I’m being generous in saying Trump has positions other than using the office as a revenge pulpit.) 

 

I’m still not American and still I care. This is me, doing my part.

 

VOTE. 

 

A RALLYING LIE

It’s supposed to be about issues, I keep telling myself. 

 

The man has no platform. He doesn’t want to talk issues. He’d have to defend them. Hell, he’d have to know them.

 

How can anyone disregard Project 2025 when he offers nothing to counter or clarify?

 

Instead of a platform, we get distraction. We get headline-making provocation.

 

And, for the most part, after a day of “outrage,” we shrug it off. There’s always a new provocation to get worked up about. The barrage of distractions should sink the man and his shot at the White House, but instead, he keeps trending, keeps getting the attention he craves.

 

There. That’s my preface. I know all this. You know all this too, right?

 

And yet one provocation that arose again last week—he’s down to re-spinning his greatest hits now—requires that I not shrug it off even though we were pelted with new provocations over the weekend. (Seriously, America, aren’t you exhausted?)

 

It’s Donald Trump’s repeating that schools are aiding and abetting—even actively initiating—gender changing procedures for minors that I cannot let go by with a shrug or a “Oh, that’s just Trump” non-analysis. (You really are exhausted, America.)

 

Speaking with Joe Rogan on Friday, Trump said, “Who would want to have — there’s so many — the transgender operations: where they’re allowed to take your child when he goes to school and turn him into a male — to a female — without parental consent.”

 

Like so many Trump comments these days, I have to reread or replay the quote first. The 78-year-old man has gotten less coherent in his rambles, but this statement is Trump at his clearest. And what he says is utterly preposterous. If anything, the quote should establish that Trump is not of sound mind. A generous take on it would be to say he’s woefully broadened and distorted the ongoing issue of pronoun preferences and whether teachers must have parental consent to address students with non-cisgender corresponding ones.

 

But even that should be damning. How can the presidential candidate for a major political party misstate or misunderstand an issue so badly? But he banks on the fact he’s not fact-checked by his supporters or even by begrudging non-fans in the Republican Party who still attempt to defend or deflect what the man says. 

 

“Oh, that’s just Trump.”

 

Yeah, that’s just the man on the ballot seeking another term as President of the United States. Shake yourselves, America. “That’s just Trump” is not an acceptable reaction. Donald Trump has been interviewing to get his job back for four years and, wow, this is not someone you hire. No, not even to run the fry machine at McDonald’s. 

 

You know this. And your crazy uncle/neighbor/co-worker knows this, too. They go along for the sport of it and, when I say “sport,” I’m talking the fake kind, that staged wrestling which made a household name of performers like Hulk Hogan. Fake sport, fake news, fake facts. (Damn Kellyanne Conway and her “alternative facts.”) 

 

Schools are not helping kids get hormones or operations to change gender. Trump knows this. He openly lies. And that’s deemed acceptable by fifty percent of the voting public. (Really, America? How is this possible? If you distrust politicians so much, why do you give a free pass to the most intentionally distrustful of the lot?)

 

This particular lie rankles me so much because I spent my career as a teacher and school principal. If there were even one case of school officials in some way transporting a student to a healthcare facility or otherwise enabling a gender-changing surgery, it would be all over the news. The teacher would be named. The school would be known. The school district would have to investigate, dismiss the school staff member and go into damage control. I would be horrified of such a case which is the reaction Trump is eliciting…just without such a case. 

 

This nonsense freaks out his base. They don’t understand gender pronouns much less actions to align one’s body with the gender that feels authentic. They have been plenty worked up over boys going into girls’ bathrooms and running against them at track meets. Now this? Surgery?! Without parental consent?! Outrageous! And not happening.

 

Trumped-up outrage causes more negative feelings toward people who identify as trans or nonbinary. It damages the greater LGBTQ+ community. It further tarnishes public education. It creates another dent in the trust and respect that teachers work so hard to gain. (Respect is far from a given anymore.) 

 

Trump doesn’t care. Trump was never a product of the public school system. Mr. Bone Spurs attended the private Kew-Forest School from kindergarten to grade seven, then went to private boarding school at the New York Military Academy. 

 

The disparaged groups are all traditionally Democrat-leaning voters. His allegation is a safe lie. No losses in terms of voters. It’s better than safe. It’s a rallying lie. Vote for Trump or those teachers are going to be out of control! Whole classes are going to have their genitals transformed during math! Fear the Woke. Vote them away.

 

This is gross. It’s pathetic. And…it’s working.

 

It undermines truth in reporting. It feeds conspiracy creators and spreaders. I’m glad CNN reported this yet again. In this article, CNN does an exemplary job debunking any allegation that schools are complicit in gender-changing medical care for children. Read it. Pass it on to your crazy uncle/neighbor/co-worker. They won’t read it, but they will have a clear takedown of Trump’s allegation within reach. Maybe, just maybe, curiosity will tweak them before they double down. It’s indeed a reach but it beats being resigned to not just playing with the facts but playing with all-out fiction.

 

And then look to see where Trump stands on issues. If you find nothing but a shell or a total void, know that's as good as it gets. Know that Trump will improvise presidential leadership just as he has improvised his campaign. Vote to make this circus roadshow go away for good. Let the exhaustion end. 

 

 

 

  

IS IT OKAY TO STILL LIKE ELLEN?

Cancel culture sidelined Ellen DeGeneres before the term even entered pop culture. Back in 1997, she had the gall to take a popular sitcom and “use it” as a platform to come out as gay. Historically, the word gay meant happy, but the public consensus, as measured by Nielsen ratings (and ABC executives) was that gay was not funny.[1] (Will Truman and Jack McFarland had yet to be conceived.) The show was axed after five seasons in May 1998. (Will & Grace would premiere four months later.)

 

Ellen DeGeneres was exiled to Siberia or at least somewhere north of the Hollywood Hills.

 

Remarkably, she found her way back. A talk show. She didn’t step back in the closet. She remained open as a lesbian and even frequently mentioned her partner, Portia de Rossi. Ellen was accepted as fun and funny again. She was harmless, doing goofy little dances, filming her staff getting spooked in haunted houses and occasionally scaring guests as people and things popped out mid-interview. Mostly, she was lite and likable, a lovely afternoon accompaniment to getting a dinner casserole ready or stretching before hitting the gym. Her show ran for nineteen seasons, from 2003-2022, and seemingly could have gone on in perpetuity…or until Ellen chose to settle for good in somewhere like Palm Springs or another destination far warmer than Siberia.

 

But she got cancelled again. As a show, as a person. 

 

Ostensibly, it was Ellen’s decision. She’d certainly done her time. But the public had turned on her once again. In 2020, there were allegations that the set for the talk show was a toxic work environment. Producers—not Ellen—were accused of harassment and racist comments. Three producers were fired after an investigation. But, as so often is the case, the person at the helm, got taken down, too.  

 

Ellen, it would seem, was a tempting target for any negative views from past employees and guests. She’d been portrayed as the Queen of Nice and, at some point, began ending each episode with the remark, “Be kind to one another.” What I viewed as earnest, others viewed as self-righteous. Many don’t take kindly to being told how to behave by rich, pampered Hollywood elites. Media salivated over the chance to bring down a celebrity who called for kindness. 

 

According to an article in The Guardian summarizing Ellen’s pierced persona, a Dutch YouTube media influencer complained that, as a guest on the show, she couldn’t use the closest restroom because it was designated for the Jonas Brothers and claimed Ellen was “cold” off-camera. (Tell me this isn’t the media trying desperately to make or draw out a story.)  The takedown of Ellen also included an oft-played 2019 talk show clip where Ellen extended belated birthday wishes to Dakota Johnson and Ellen said she hadn’t been invited to Johnson’s party though, in fact, she had. (Ooh! Burn!) 

 

Ellen’s ratings dropped and, after its end, she disappeared from the public eye again. 

 

She’s back, allegedly for a final farewell on her terms, with a Netflix stand-up special, Ellen DeGeneres: For Your Approval. The show apparently premiered a few weeks ago, but I’ve been in Europe and streaming networks were not on my radar while away. I was home on Saturday night, jetlagged and not having enough energy to read a book so I opened my laptop, landed on Netflix and clicked on the special. Easy viewing. Sometimes when I am too tired, I cannot even process jokes. Laughing veers on being painful. But I maintained a steady giggle throughout the hourlong show. 

 

Setting aside allegations she was a Mean Queen instead of the Queen of Kind, the break in time from seeing Ellen in the public eye was in her favor for myself as a viewer. Her humor is lite. It focuses on everyday minutia. I especially liked and related to parts of the routine that focused on parallel parking and car features that are unhelpful or which she will never use. Bits about chickens and pigeons also had me laughing. Ellen’s timing was impeccable and she displayed a knack for physical humor I hadn’t realized was one of her strengths. 

 

Reviews haven’t been as favorable. In her stand-up, Ellen mentions her downfalls (first, from her sitcom, then her talk show). She talks of being labeled the Most Hated Person in America and acknowledges she wasn’t the best boss. Since she raises the subject—how could she not?—the critics swooped in, asserting her representation of the problems on the set failed to take responsibility for her own wrongdoings. For this, the reviews seem to give the special a thumbs down.

 

For me, I just wanted to laugh. I wanted to be reminded of the fact that Ellen DeGeneres possesses a cheeky, lite comic delivery, more akin to Jerry Seinfeld than Dave Chappelle. She speaks of mundane quirks in life rather than taking deep cultural fissures and commenting on them with any degree of satirical or scorching sense of humor. In terms of employment issues related to her talk show, she touches on them, but I never expected an emotional mea culpa. Any reckoning most likely came through employment grievances and settled litigation. Not my domain as a general member of the public. Not the domain of this stand-up special. I feel she’s paid for any wrongs in non-financial ways as well with the demise of her show and a damaged reputation that has clearly continued from the end of the show in 2022 until now. She may have “done time” but, to critics, she’s done. 

 

I took Ellen’s stand-up at face value. She made me laugh from the beginning of her routine. I wondered if she could sustain the funny for a full hour which is a real challenge for anything in the comedic realm. Can a schtick be sustained? There were, to be sure, some gaps between giggles, but I was into the routine to the end. The fact I watched the full show while exhausted and still laughed aplenty means it was a success to me. Bravo, Ellen. 

 

I am neither judge nor jury regarding Ellen’s culpability pertaining to a purportedly toxic work environment. Anyone allegedly aggrieved has had avenues of recourse. I truly hope there have been satisfactory remedies in terms of compensation, expressions of remorse and other ways of attempting to make things right. 

 

I remain an Ellen fan. Should this not be her final act, I would tune in again. Most likely, I’d respond positively to the jokes again. Her humor fits with mine, even if it might be trendier to dismiss her for pitching softballs. Sometimes that’s exactly what I need.

 

I will always have a degree of admiration and appreciation for Ellen DeGeneres. Her very public coming out, for her character on Ellen and for herself as the cover story for Time magazine did wonders to make being gay easier. She was a household name at the time. Many queer folks were still closeted in all or in parts of their lives (e.g., at work). As noted in the same article in The Guardian, “According to a 2015 poll, Ellen did more to influence Americans’ attitudes about gay rights than any other celebrity or public figure.” It helped that neither Ellen the person nor Ellen the comic was known for being edgy. She was unassuming, likable and relatable. Some of the criticisms I’ve read once again in preparing to write this essay point out she’s rich and, in some respects, an out of touch celebrity. At a point while doing her talk show, she was reportedly earning fifty million per year. Of course, she’s going to be somewhat out of touch. Her life is not like mine in many ways. The same could be said for almost any comic who commands a Netflix special. 

 

Ellen admits in For Your Approval she continues to care what people think. For me, at least, I still like her.

 

  

  

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[1] The specific coming out episode drew high ratings, but the show’s popularity dropped off significantly the following season. Many, including myself to a degree, felt the subsequent episodes were less funny as writers tried to include gay storylines. We know gay topics are funny, but it seemed the show felt a burden in representing gayness to an audience that may not have known neighbors, co-workers and family members who identified as queer. The tone was sometimes a little too serious for a sitcom.

KEEPING MUM DESPITE OPPORTUNITIES TO SPEAK GAY

It was a rainy welcome when I arrived by train from Vaasa, Finland to Helsinki. I grabbed a cab, checked in and went to a nearby café someone recommended on an online blog. (It was okay, but I won’t pass the baton with a further recommendation.) As I left the café, I noticed several tourist pamphlets and took a few. This form of paper advertisement is no better nor worse than random online sources. Still, one brochure stood out.

 

The main heading on the front of the pamphlet said, “WE SPEAK GAY…FINLAND.” I added it to my little stack. 

 

In truth, six days later and in a different country, Estonia, I am only now glancing through it.[1] I consider the brochure more of a novelty souvenir than something that would have helped navigate my stay in Helsinki.  

 

Helsinki's Oodi Library

Before I travel—often only the night before arriving at a destination—I will Google a few things online. Typically, I look for museums and special exhibits, best coffee spots, bakeries and the central library. Food is not an issue. As a vegetarian with an eating disorder, restaurants are not a highlight, especially as a solo traveler, which is my preference. I simply look up the closest grocery store once I get to the hotel.

 

I don’t give any thought to looking for gay things—bars, bathhouses, bookstores. Why would I park myself on a stool, drinking a margarita, when I could be out seeing the city (or prepping for the next day’s agenda which usually begins before sunrise? I know many gay seek a sexual encounter as part of the “pleasure” component of the trip. I’m not adverse to it, but I don’t establish eye contact in bars and men use apps just as ineffectively abroad as they do back in Vancouver. Why would I respond to a faceless “Hey”? Why would I be interested in a profile that fills in nothing? I am quick to stop checking my one app. Really, if I have nothing to do, it’s easier and perhaps more pleasurable to read my new book. 

 

A romance, go figure.

 

My aversion to a gaycation goes back to one of my early boyfriends, Gary, whom I met through a newspaper personal ad in L.A. It was the type where you had to send a note to a related box number in care of the paper.  Old days. Similar to online messaging in terms of process, but a written note required words beyond “Hey” or “Wassup.” Can you imagine getting a letter and that’s all it said? Trash can. (This was before recycling.) Standards have changed for many, but a “Hey” still goes immediately to trash for me.

 

Gary and I didn’t travel much during our year and a half together. San Diego, Santa Barbara, San Francisco. The loveliest trip involved seeing San Simeon and staying in a cabin in Ragged Point as raccoons stared in and we stared back. The city visits were not as fun. Gary’s primary objective was to check out the gay bars, of which there were more back then. I didn’t see the point. He never danced; just sat on a stool, smoking one cigarette after another while keeping a growing bar tab. Part of me was insecure. Why did we have to be immersed in gays when we had each other? I’d hoped being in a relationship meant I could stop going to bars. But then Gary was the alcoholic, not me. He was getting something out of it, not me. 

 

Gay bars on holiday? Not me.

 

I also have never planned my travels around Pride celebrations. I’m not a parade guy. I love dancing, but I’m not a raver. Pride would, in fact, be a reason for me to reschedule my trip to a different weekend. I know this makes me sound sad or sour. I am neither. I did the Rose Bowl back in 2010 when my school, TCU, won the game. That won’t likely happen again in my lifetime. Mardi Gras, Mexico City’s Day of the Dead and anything to do with Carnival in Rio are the only parades left on my bucket list. Carnival is a distinct event. Pride in Amsterdam or Munich or Taipei? Pass. I don’t need to see how they do queer parades in London or compare the abs of twenty-two-year-olds atop floats in Barcelona versus Sydney. With Pride generating big turnouts more than ever, hotel prices are bound to be higher and the non-Pride events may have larger crowds. These are the same reasons I don’t travel to Europe in summer. I love taking photos and I don’t want every shot of Mona Lisa or the Trevi Fountain photobombed by people’s shoulders. 

 

This has been my fifth trip to Sweden which I broadened to include bits of Finland and Estonia. I know I am safe in Sweden. I know I don’t have to repress mannerisms that might be viewed as stereotypically gay. Swedish society is incredibly progressive. More than that, they give you space and leave you alone unless you approach them. My gayness is not an issue. 

 

Helsinki harbor

I felt Finland would be similar. Nothing about my stay made me worry or think I should tone anything down. If you’ve read this much, you probably think this non-raving, parade hater, hookup app critic has nothing to tone down. You might say, if I toned things down more, I  would be flatlining. I do like good conversation, good times and big laughs, all just on a smaller scale.

 

Perhaps I should have read up on gay rights in Estonia. It is, after all, a former Soviet Socialist Republic. The Soviets weren’t known for individuality or freedom of speech and expression. 

 

Here is my belated research on the status of a couple basic gay rights in each of the countries I visited, with Canada (where I live) and the U.S. (where I’ve lived) thrown in for comparison.   

 

Here are the relevant countries ranked based on when homosexuality was decriminalized at the national level: 

              Sweden – 1944

      Canada – 1969 

      Finland – 1971

      Estonia - 1992

              U.S. – 2003

 

Here they are ranked based on when marriage equality became a national right:

              Canada – 4^th in world, since 2005 

              Sweden – 7^th, 2009

              U.S. – 17^th, 2015

              Finland – 20^th, 2017

              Estonia – 35^th, Jan. 1, 2024

 

With a few countries having gay marriage pending, we’re at about forty countries in the world that allow this. It says something that, yes, Estonia is now on the list. It may say even more that homosexuality was decriminalized so soon after the fall of the Soviet Union and more than a decade before the U.S. 

 

Yes, a safe trip. They speak gay in Finland. I’d say they speak it in Sweden, too. Estonia as well. Assumptions, to be sure, Finnish pamphlet notwithstanding. Quite honestly, I spent this trip with my mind on the frequency of Ukrainian flags more than gay men. How does anyone visit Helsinki and use a gay pamphlet as a conduit to all-things-gay without considering how Finland shares a border with Russia. Same for Estonia. 

 

Awakening Faun by Finnish artist
Magnus Enckell

I also went to several art museums, my mind focused on how hard it is for a talented, successful artist in one country to have their work seen and appreciated elsewhere. I saw much that was on a level with Rembrandt, Picasso, O’Keeffe and Warhol. Presumably, the Finns and Estonians know and are proud of their own art wunderkinds. If only the art world were better at broadening the platform and elevating the exposure and status of painters like Finns Sam Vanni, Tyko Sallinen and Magnus Enckell as well as Estonians such as Henn Roode, Olga Terri, Peet Aren and Eduard Ole.   

 

Beyond that, My Big Non-Gay Vacation involved lots of cafés where I wrote and people watched, bike rides to get me beyond city centers and runs through the forest, along the Baltic and in my favorite park spaces in Stockholm. 

 

I didn’t speak gay this trip. I didn’t speak Finnish or Estonian either. I read small amounts of Swedish but didn’t dare speak it despite five years of daily practice. The only different speaking turned out to be French which I slogged through with a lovely straight couple from Normandy while we tried to navigate how to use public transit to reach the Tallinn airport. Bus drivers didn’t speak gay or English or maybe even Estonian. They just stared gruffly, a very clear form of nonverbal communication. 

 

Speaking anything is not always necessary.

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[1] The actual pamphlet is a listing of a hundred businesses throughout Finland…a few gay bars but mainly restaurants and hotels. There is reference to a pledge these businesses take to show their commitment to the LGBTQ+ community. The closest I could find to a pledge on their website is the following:

“We stand together against homophobia, transphobia and all kind of discrimination. We are working for a safer and more inclusive society.” All good. 

  

THE SWEDISH EXCEPTION

More than two months ago, I took guidance from Air Supply and realized I was All Out of Love. Five times love happened. Five times it un-happened. I was done. I was ready to let go. All those songs about love could shift over to the meaningless category along with tunes like “Tubthumping,” “Barbie Girl” or even “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

 

My thoughts on love have not changed. Done. In the past. It feels good to be single and free.

 

But there is an asterisk that belongs to that July blog post and it’s only become apparent this past week.

 

I’ll fall for a Swede.

 

The reason this became apparent this week is because I am in Sweden. It’s my fifth visit since 2017. There would have been more but COVID and one of those five past loves got in the way a few years. I have every intention of making this an annual trek. It would be even better if I could just stay. 

 

I mean that. I feel more at home in Stockholm than anywhere I’ve been. I have stopped seeing it as a tourist. When I visit, I go about my ordinary days, writing, walking, exercising, reading, musing. But “ordinary” here always seems to have an “extra” in front of it. My level of comfort and ease is exceptional. I didn’t know I could be myself this much.

 

It’s not something I can explain. It just is. Kinda like love. I know it when I’m in it. And I love being in Stockholm.

 

I also happen to find the men here exceptionally attractive. And aloof. I don’t think I have ever made eye contact with a Swedish man. They aren’t oglers. That’s why I can steal glances so frequently. 

 

I entertain myself by practicing my beginner’s Swedish in my head. 

 

“Du är min pojkvän.” (You are my boyfriend.)

“Du är min blivande man.” (You are my future husband.)

 

My mental messaging gets me nothing. Not even that coveted glance. 

 

Maybe that’s all it’ll take. Kismet. Same wavelength. Love at first sight. Why not? People speak of such things. 

 

Let a kind, funny, intelligent, handsome, stylish Swedish man be my asterisk. If that sounds like a lot, handsome and stylish are already in abundance among Swedish men so I tell myself the whole package isn’t such a stretch. 

 

I’m willing to meet anywhere and fall in love. My one condition is we settle in Sweden. Stockholm, if I may be so bold in the gentlest of ways. Like a true Swede. Or close. I’ll refine my understanding of that once I relocate.

 

  

MAKING "LOVE" OUT OF NOTHING AT ALL

Back in January, I wrote about finally being able to like rom-coms again. I was also reading romance novels and liking a few. In the late ’80s and throughout the ’90s, rom-com movies were my thing. I couldn’t get enough of Meg Ryan’s cutesy on-screen image or Nora Ephron’s sharp writing. 

 

Then a bad relationship soured me. He’d seemed perfect until I discovered he was anything but. I should have walked away after nine months…two years, tops. Unfortunately, I’d been raised in a bubble where no one got divorced and the words “for better or for worse” meant everything. 

 

“Worse” should never include abuse. I finally escaped that horrid relationship after seven years, emotionally beaten down and battered.

 

Love was a bunch of hogwash. 

 

I saw through rom-coms and their happy endings. Sometimes I felt especially disheartened, sensing that the couple was not meant to be together. Why would I cheer when they made up after a breakup? Why in hell would I want them meeting at the altar?

 

I credited my new boyfriend for making me a believer again. I was in love, I’d learned from my past and I felt secure in thinking we would go the distance. Let’s watch rom-coms! Bring on the romance novels! Happily ever after yet again! Why would I want it any other way?

 

Two months later, my two-year forever love went kaput. I hadn’t seen it coming. I still can’t explain where or why things went wrong.

 

I should be repulsed by rom-coms and romances again…for a while at least. I mean, I’d flown from Vancouver to Denver for a two-week visit and he dumped me ten minutes into the ride from the train station where he picked me up. It also happened to be Valentine’s Day.

 

F%#k love, right?! 

 

Happily ever after, my ass. Utter bullshit. Enough with the Hollywood endings. Life—mine, at least—looks nothing like that.

 

At the time, I was muddling through the middle of writing a gay romance novel. The logical thing would have been to set it aside or kill off one of the two main characters. So long romance; hello, murder mystery. 

 

Let the survivor go on, living triumphantly on his own. Let him realize love is but a distraction from greatness. Or it’s fleeting, at most.

 

But I wrote on while trying to recover from a severe case of What Just Happened? as The Supremes’ “Where Did Our Love Go?” played on repeat in my mind.

 

My fictional characters, Jeremy and Shaw, had problems and broke up, too. Conflict is a fundamental element in fiction while something I avoid at all costs IRL. Still, I set aside jadedness and cynicism. I shrugged off the dumping as best I could and told myself it would not impact Jeremy and Shaw. 

 

I couldn’t control my relationship and its demise, but I had full authorial command over my world of make believe, playing out in an expanding manuscript. Not once did I think they were forever doomed. Never did I wish my woes on them. I rooted for them, even when they were apart. They needed to grow, together and separately. They needed to realize how much love they had between them and take action to not just restore but strengthen it. 

 

I am pleased to report I finished the first draft today. SPOILER ALERT: happy ending. It’s not actually a spoiler at all. Romance novels are required to end with Happily Ever After or, at a minimum, Happy For Now. If I could, I’d escape real life and jump into a rom-com or romance novel. With my luck, I’d be nothing more than a supporting character, the Rosie O’Donnell to Meg Ryan or the Rupert Everett to Julia Roberts. 

 

But, no. Jumping into a rom-com is not possible. In life, I’m solidly single. I’m fortunate that my novel lets me play around and imagine what might have been. I’m truly happy for Jeremy and Shaw. 

 

As I do with all my novel first drafts, I’m setting this manuscript aside for the next six months. It creates some distance between the characters, the plot, the word choices, the tone and me. When I open up the document again in April, I hope I will still see a spark in the work. I hope I’ll still like both Jeremy and Shaw as individuals and love them as a couple. I hope I will see enough in them and the work to dive into the challenging process of revision with the intention of making the story even stronger.

 

Right now, Jeremy and Shaw can just sit back and relax. For the next half year, they have no more conflicts or challenges. They are firmly in love. Let them savor that. Let me step away from their love while I focus on a new project. Something involving a sad-sack character. Something I can authentically write.