Thanks Adam for pointing out that my older sister could not have turned 31. I just wanted to see if people were paying attention

Yes, I corrected it. My sister turned 33. I am 31, wishing that I can turn 31 again. Or 21. That would be perfect. I remember my 21st birthday clearly. I was at Forestry Camp. It was the summer between my Junior and Senior year in college. The camp cook baked me a huge vanilla cake with cream cheese frosting and ’21′ outlined in grapes. She made enough cake to serve 75. It was really nice of her.

Then my friends took me to the local pub for drinks. “A Long Island Iced Tea for the birthday girl!”

The bartender checked IDs, took one look at me, then insisted, “I am not serving this girl unless someone can promise me that she’s going to get home ok.” They shouted back to pour the drink. Of course I would get home ok. I did. That was an amazing summer. About 30 college kids enjoying a summer filled with nature, hiking, adventure, friendship, love.

Happy Halloween! I am off to the Castro.

Dad, Mom, Tree, Dominic, Me
(Ronnie is at work)

Therese, Dominic, Me

Today’s my sister’s 33rd birthday. Baby Dominic is sick; he passed his germs onto my sister who wasn’t feeling well yesterday, but today she perked up and felt fine. I thought it was really cute that she decided to curl her hair and make herself up to celebrate her birthday–even though she wasn’t going anywhere.

I said I didn’t want to be around a sick baby, I didn’t want to jeopardize my health during my conversions. But I surprised Therese by bringing over flowers. Someone who lives in her apartment complex was kind enough to let me sneak in even though I didn’t have a key. My parents were over, too. They brought Chinese food (requested by the birthday girl).

My intent was to babysit Dominic and treat my sister and her husband to dinner. Another time. My sister said even a trip on her own to Starbucks to get some coffee would be a good enough gift.

Me and Marc, Halloween 2006

He’s everything I want: extremely intelligent, comedic, handsome, professional, sensitive, hard-working, independent. And gay. Not gay as in happy. Gay as in lives in the Castro, has an autographed picture of Martha Stewart, and likes cock.

Marc’s one of my best friends. We were in the same English class freshman year. On the first day, he raised his hand confidently, answered correctly. Our teacher was impressed. I was smitten. I’m a sucker for geeks. Intelligence first, looks second. But this shouldn’t overshadow Marc’s good looks. He dated the prettiest, most popular high school girls. That ruled me out. He had his choice of dates. I went to the prom alone. Nevertheless, we complemented each other. Geek vs. Nerd. Ambition vs. Hard Work. We co-existed as a team, although we were each aware that in the end, we were battling to be better than the other. We respected each other. I respected his brilliance. He respected my work ethic.

After we graduated from Cal, I brought him into my startup. The startup failed. He moved on to work for one of our customers. I went to grad school. I returned to the same friend I had admired—someone who had gone on to become a director at his company. Every time he threatened to leave, they gave him more money and promoted him. “I’ve been at the same company for six years,” he’d sigh, underwhelmed with his accomplishments. “Look at you, you got your MBA and bought a house.”

Our conversations center around how proud we are of having done exactly what we wanted to do. Go to prestigious schools, make money, have promising careers. We did it all. We can do anything we want. Anything. We didn’t factor relationships or love into the goals we had. We figured that would just fall into place, but it hasn’t.

The heartache has become routine. “Cathy, my boyfriend dumped me.”
“Again?”

“Marc, I just broke up with my boyfriend!”
“Is this the second or the third time around?”

I’ll get him liquored up—a night on the town.
He’ll cook me dinner and we’ll get trashed drinking wine in his apartment.

At his place, suffering from Dave breakup, I sniffled, “Hey Marc, if we’re both single when we’re 40, how ‘bout we get married?”

“Oh, Cathy,” he beamed. “That’s a great idea! It would be perfect. You can clean. I can cook. And we’d make a shitload of money. OmiGod, think of what we can do with our purchasing power. Yes, yes! Let’s do it. Shake.”

Firm handshake to seal the deal.

When I returned from Minneapolis, I wanted to go out. I didn’t care that I had an early morning call the next morning. I called Marc. He reiterated his one drink policy for the night. He was feeling out of it, maybe coming down with something.

Fine, I was ok with a drink or two. I needed to get out. I felt like I’d missed out on the Indian Summer action while in winter cold Minneapolis.

We strolled around the Castro. It was perfect T-shirt and shorts weather in late October at night in San Francisco. I couldn’t believe it. I get cold easily, but I didn’t even have a sweater on.

I drank mojito after mojito after mojito. Five drinks total. Marc’s one drink turned into one too many. We went from bar to bar to club to club, dancing, laughing. I was having a great time. I could do this. I could marry a gay guy! Aren’t you supposed to marry your best friend? Marc’s my best friend. The fact that he’s gay…umm, that’s minor, right?

It was 1:30am on a Thursday night. I had fantasies of my bed. “Marc, I’m done. I’m going home.” I hung on his arm, scanned the dance floor, and pointed. “Look, that guy there. He’s hot. Go get him, tiger. I’ll be home in bed.”

“Ok, Catchee. Love you, mean it. Bye!”

I exited with a grin on my face. Marc loves me. He’d take care of me. He’s my best friend. He just might make the perfect husband.

Bay to Breakers 2006