The Visit.

It’s 4:30 a.m.

I’m sitting in the living room at our dining room table typing on my laptop.  I’d really like to be in the guest room my room at my desk top.

Unfortunately I can’t.

And why you ask?

Because we have house guest.  Who are using my room the guest room as we describe it.

Adam’s best friend Kara arrived today with her husband Daniel in tow.  You might remember them from last summer.  Adam and I went to California to help them with their wedding.  We spent the most intense 48 hours together ever.  If we could get through that without fighting I think we can get through just about anything.

So they arrived today for their annual spring visit.  They were here last year but I’m pretty sure that I hid at home while they were here.  Adam has assured me they are easy house guests.  They will fend for themselves.  They don’t need to be toured around the city.  Nor will they expect us to hang out with them every minute of every day.

All of this is fine.

Except for.

They aren’t leaving until next Saturday.

Nine fucking days.

Let me repeat that.

Nine fucking days!!!!

That’s a long time to have someone visit.  Even if they are easy and don’t have to have their hands held while they are here.

Adam had already warned me that Kara likes to spread out.  She’s only been here about four hours and she’s already spreading.  There is a suitcase in the foyer.  A laptop on the occasional table.  A phone and keys on the counter.  Shoes on the steps.  OH MY GOD!  What’s it going to be like by next Saturday.

And all of this is really fine.

We like house guests.  We really do.  And we are excellent hosts.  We really are.

Come visit and we’ll show you an awesome time.

I promise.

But I like my routine.

Adam has finally embraced the reality that I like my routine.

I like getting up in the morning and walking naked to the bathroom.  And then to the kitchen to make coffee.  I grab my bathrobe from the hook in the bedroom and then I grab my phone to call Adam.  Then I pour myself a cup of coffee and plant myself in front of the computer and spend an hour or so before I have to get ready for work.

And then when I get home I like to change clothes.  And bring my dinner into MY room and eat at my desk.  At MY desktop.  Without worrying about the noise I’m making or if I’m waking someone.

So for the next nine days I won’t have my routine.  And somehow I’ll manage to get by.  And soon enough they’ll leave for California and we’ll miss them immediately.

Did I mention that they leave on the 15th for California?

Liz and Doris get here on the 15th for a three day stay.

Who said yes to all of this?



All is well.

Adam and I are great.  Except for the break up.  No I jest.  Really things couldn’t be better.  Unless we won Mega Millions tonight and then things would really be fucking awesome.

Don’t know why I haven’t written in a while.  No explanation really.

I’ll try to do better.


I’d put the little accent mark over the “o” but I don’t know how.

It translates into “FAGGOT”

Which translates into me hating the word.

With a passion.

I’ve always hated the word fag.  I don’t know why.

I don’t toss it around with my friends.

No —

“Hey faggot what are you up to?”

I don’t like when they toss it around with me.

I don’t like it used at all.

Even with gay men often it is a derogatory word.

“He’s such a fag.”

Adam has learned not to say it,

I especially don’t like it when someone who is not gay uses it.


Or Not.

I also don’t like the word MARICON.”

It’s derogatory.

So imagine my surprise when I’m standing in the kitchen ringing up an order on Monday night and I hear the kitchen manager say “blah, blah, blah, MARICON.  He was calling one of the kitchen guys a fag.

This is not the first time I’ve heard the word in the kitchen.  It is in fact the second.  What was surprising was that it was a manager.

It pissed me off.

So I went to my manager on duty and told him that if I heard the word again out of the kitchen I was going to make one hell of a stink about it.  He wanted to know who said it and when I told him it was Pedro the kitchen manager he said he’d talk to him.

I said okay and went back to waiting tables.

About 15 minutes later my manager comes up to me and says, “Pedro says that’s not what he said.  He says that it’s a miscommunication and my not knowing Spanish didn’t allow for the correct understanding of the word.”

I asked my manager if Pedro would be saying the same thing if I went into the kitchen and miscommunicated the word “nigger.”

(Adam told me last night that he didn’t like that I say this word.  I find it interesting how many people say “the “n” word” rather than nigger.  Somehow the statement loses it’s power.  If I had said, “Would he be upset if I miscommunicated the “n” word.” it somehow loses it’s punch.  It’s not like I go around calling people this.)

My manager said that I had a point and that Pedro would be coming out to speak to me.

At this point I’m really pissed off.

I didn’t miss hear or misunderstand anything.  I heard the word maricon.  And I was not the only one there.  I turned when I heard it and our lead host was in the kitchen getting something to drink.  She happens to speak Spanish.  I asked her if I’d heard what I thought I’d heard.  She assured me that I’d heard correctly.

After my manager told me what Pedro said I went back to the wait station and started asking my Spanish speaking co-workers what the meaning of maricon is.  None of them knew of a different meaning.  I asked them all.

Now I’m really pissed.

So I’m in the wait station and Pedro comes up to me and asks me if he can talk to me.

We step into the hallway.

He says:

I don’t know what you thought you heard.  But I didn’t say maricon as in faggot.  I said maricon as in “mother fucker”.  They sound the same but if you speak Spanish then you could tell the difference.


I told him to drop the act.  I wasn’t stupid.  I know what he said, and I know what it meant.  I also told him, not so calmly that I’d asked every single Spanish person working if I could have misconstrued the meaning of the word and I was assured that there was no other word that sounded similar and it didn’t have another meaning.

He protested again, getting heated.

By this time we are just short of yelling at each other.


And I walked away.

I probably shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it.  But it rubbed me the wrong way.  And I think it’s very inappropriate.  And as a gay man I shouldn’t have to deal with people throwing the word around as some sort of insult.

I didn’t talk to Daniel.  I went to work and acted as nothing had happened.  Pedro was there and I worked with him.  He didn’t mention it either.

I realized tonight what pissed me off most about Pedro’s response.

He thought I wasn’t smart enough to know that he was lying.  I may be a “maricon” but I’m not stupid.


It’s not all right to call someone a faggot or maricon as an insult.

Gay or straight.