Wish me luck!

So I'm heading "home" this weekend to the town where I grew up...the burbs outside Philadelphia. One of my "little sisters" (youngest daughter of our closest family friends who was a swimmer too and had no brothers) is getting married. I guess most people get excited about going home after not having seen the town in years...I don't. I left the area for a reason--I didn't particularly enjoy my childhood years there...hence moving far away to the South. I know I'm going to come face-to-face with annoyances from my past--fat chicks who want to dance with the gay guy, losers, and real estate agents. Since I never went to my 10-year reunion, this will be the closest thing to it. I have images of Romy and Michelle in my head. --Yes, I invented Post-It Notes.-- Especially since I was a quasi-nerd back in high school, but will probably be the only 29yr old male there with abs and a full head of hair.

(below is written from my sister's suburban castle)

Case in point, the sister who's organizing a lot of the reception asked me "Do you want to sit with ___ (insert names of fat chicks) or your parents?" I went with my parents. A. I don't get to see them very often; B. Otherwise I'd have endless questions from air-headed cheerleader wannabees while staring at caked-on makeup. Just what I need...more fag hags. Nevertheless, I'll undoubtedly spend 10 min picking out the perfect tie to match the suit I packed in the hopes of being second-to-none when it comes to formal fashion (I quickly shoved 4 ties in my suitcase). Hey...I'm gay...gotta reputation to uphold

Random memories

I cherish memories of my youth, but there are some that are so far back in my cobweb filled brain, that it takes one helluva trigger to bring them forward. This morning I was at Einstein Bagels and one such trigger hit me like a ton of bricks...they're advertising their new pizza bagels, and you'll see where this is going in a minute.

I had a very close relationship with my paternal grandfather. Being the youngest of all the grandchildren, I was the most energetic and willing to learn from his wisdom. He also lived 3/4 of a mile away, so his house was an easy getaway from my regular family, and I was always welcome...whether it was to help him cut the grass, tend to the garden, build something out of wood, play some baseball, climb trees, or even just sit, watch tv and listen to stories. Peter, from which my middle name is derived, was born in 1908, and as a history buff you can imagine how I was awe-stuck by some of the things he had to say. As I lived somewhat of a reclusive adolescence, due to my inner gay conflict, he was at times one of my best friends. Though being 70 years my senior, Pete only saw the first 17 years of his favorite grandson's life.

Now Pete was an old fashioned patriarch...he was the provider and counselor. Mary, his wife, stayed at home to cook, clean, raise the children. She didn't even know how to drive a car. Being the stereotypical Depression Era male, Pete didn't really know how to cook--at all. He could make two things: soft boiled eggs and pizza on an English muffin. I still remember standing on a chair, watching as he taught me to use the toaster oven, spread pizza sauce, cheese, and pepperoni on a split Thomas English Muffin, and bake it til golden brown. The amazing thing is, for someone clueless about cooking, he even taught me how to properly spice it with oregano. This is quite possibly the first thing I ever learned to cook...which snowballed into my current culinary prowess.