The long way home

I’ve always done things the hard way. Often it’s a curse, but on rare occasions it has also been a blessing. I’ve found you really have a deeper appreciation of things when they don’t come so easily. And that’s why I had to fly almost 10,000 miles (one-way) and cross the International Date Line to find my way home.

My dear wife and I recently returned from a three-week tour of Australia. Well, our bodies have returned, but our circadian rhythms are marching to the beat of a different time zone. Jetlag is real, y’all. Oh well, a small price to pay for a marvelous adventure Down Under.

**Unbearable cuteness at the Sydney Zoo**

Everyone always asks the same question when we return from a trip – “What was your favorite part?” That’s usually a tough one to answer, but not this time. The most favorite part of our trip had nothing to do with our tour. Don’t get me wrong, the tour was great. We covered a lot of ground – taking three internal flights. Australia is massive and we went from Melbourne (the coastal capital of Victoria) to Uluru (the largest sandstone monolith in the world) to Cairns (the gateway to the Great Barrier Reef) to Sydney (the most populous city in Australia). That’s over 4,000 miles of flying – and a lot of Tim Tams – Australia’s denser, chewier version of our Kit Kat. Highly recommend!

**We bounced around a lot of Australia.**

**Dinner in Outback > Dinner at Outback**

**A night of a thousand stars in Uluru**

**The Twelve Apostles in Victoria are a highlight of The Great Ocean Road. Spoiler alert: There are only seven.**

**The Three Sisters and the Blue Mountains – it doesn’t end well for the sisters, but damn, it’s pretty.**

There were lots of highlights – my wife got to feed a kangaroo – shut up! And we dined outdoors under the Milky Way in the Outback. Honestly, every day was spectacular except for our ill-fated trip to the Great Barrier Reef. My wife is such a trouper that even though she suffers from motion sickness, she signs up for the full experience. She wore a Scopolamine patch AND took Dramamine for our voyage. The seas were angry that day and let’s just say we shall henceforth refer to that World Heritage Site as the Great Barrier Barf.

Australia is bursting with natural wonder, unique wildlife, stunning coastlines, and vibrant cities. And Australians are lovely, laid-back, friendly folks. You hear them say, “No worries, mate” a lot and that pretty much reflects their relaxed approach to life. This was all no surprise to us since we got to know a handful of Aussies on a 2014 tour of Italy. They were a joyous lot of 13 ranging in age from 15 to over 70 and came from all over Australia. We could tell this was the group to hang out with from day one and we shamelessly glammed on to them. And two weeks later when we tearfully said our goodbyes, we vowed to see each other again one day.

**Cairns was giving some *White Lotus* vibes.**

**The Sydney Opera House is beathtaking – day or night.**

We kept up over the years through Facebook and some of them would have reunions every now and again and drunk FaceTime us – oblivious to the 14-hour time difference. We always loved hearing from them, even if it was 5 AM for us. One reunion they even had little dolls with our names on them and posed us in all the pictures. No wonder we fell in love with these fun-loving goofballs.

**The Addy and Joy dolls came out of the caravan closet to join the reunion party.**

And now I’m finally getting to the favorite part of our trip to Australia – our eleven years in the making reunion with our Aussie mates. We gave them all the head’s up that we were coming their way when we booked our trip almost a year ago. Our tour ended in Sydney, but Leeanne, mother of four grown sons and grandmother to two littles, generously offered to host us in her home. She and her husband Neil and her younger sister Michelle and her husband Darren all live within miles of each other in Newcastle, New South Wales. And our other Lee-Anne – what are the odds? – lives about eight hours north of them in Broadbeach, Queensland on the Gold Coast. We had a plan and the countdown was on.

The only thing we didn’t factor in was the Easter holiday weekend, so when Leeanne and her oldest son Ryan (now known as St. Ryan) picked us up in Sydney, the two-hour drive to Newcastle took about five hours. We hardly noticed. We talked non-stop and Leeanne had stocked the car with water, snacks, lollies (Australia’s word for candy) and tissues for rest stops in case they were out of toilet paper (they were). We felt so cared for.

We arrived in Newcastle and Neil and Lee-Anne were waiting for us on the deck, wine glasses in hand. And anybody who says there’s no crying in reunions is wrong. We hugged each other’s guts out. And we did it all over again when Michelle and Darren arrived a few hours later. The reunion was on!

**We got the band back together -Darren, Michelle, Joy, Addy, Lee-Anne, Neil and Leeanne. Cheers, Big Ears!**

What followed was one of the best weekends of my life. We were deeply ensconced in a bubble of laughter, love, and connection. It was magic. The first night we sat on the deck overlooking the Watagan Mountains and talked for hours. And Leeanne’s son Matt dropped by with his new baby Lewis – better known as Koala Baby. We passed Lewis around like a potato and he clung tightly to each of us – no tears. Leeanne and Neil have created such a beautiful family – their love and affection for each other is palpable. Oh, and when we finally said our goodnights, everyone hugged and kissed us again. We were ready to fill out the adoption papers – for us, not Lewis.

**Darren and Michelle in the background as I have a cuddle with sweet Lewis.**

The next morning when I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee, both Leeanne 1 and Lee-Anne 2 kissed me good morning and asked how I slept. “Like a koala baby,” I said. True story. And I was so glad we weren’t in a hotel. There’s something so sweet and intimate about greeting the day with dear friends in your pjs.

**Newcastle, New South Wales is gorgeous!**

Leeanne and Michelle had planned a wonderful overview of Newcastle, and our first stop was the Newcastle Memorial Walk overlooking the spectacular coastline. We had to cross a terribly busy street with cars zooming by and as an opening appeared, Leeanne took my hand firmly in hers and held it until we arrived safely on the other side of the street. You may not understand how I felt if you are lucky enough to still have a mom, but at that moment I was a little girl again and I did not want to let go of that sweet paw. It’s funny – I’m older than Leeanne and about six inches taller than her, but she has big Mom energy – and I mean that in the absolute best sense. She is loving and caring and nurturing in such a natural and gentle way.

**Lovely Leeanne in the middle – best hand holder ever!**

That’s how the whole weekend felt – like we were being held. There was a peacefulness surrounding us that I had not felt in a very long time -and certainly not since January 20^th. Australians hate Trump, too, and I felt the global impact of his toxicity in a way I never had. Our Aussie friends are worried about their retirement accounts, too. And they cannot understand how he was elected – again. Ironically, we were in Australia a few weeks before their election although we hardly saw any signs of it. Their campaign season lasts one month. ONE MONTH! And there are no huge rallies – they laughed and told us no one would come to a political rally in Australia much less buy a stupid hat. Politics is not a death match in their country, and they are better off for it.

If America is a clenched fist these days, Australia is an open hand – ready to pat you on the back. Aussies have a jaunty lightness of being that is intoxicating to be around. They simply know how to live. We felt this every minute we shared with our friends, and I’m determined to hang on to this feeling for as long as I can.

Yes, I will still retain my Resistance membership, and I will make my calls to my representatives, and I will work hard for the midterm elections, but I refuse to let Donald Trump steal any more of my joy. Mortality is no longer a random musing for me these days as more and more friends face serious health issues. My meter is running, and I’ve got some more places to go.

Michelle and Darren drove us back to Sydney on Easter Sunday night and we were still gabbing away when it came time to say goodbye. Darren kept shaking his head and saying, “I still can’t believe you guys came.” And then we all squeezed each other tightly – twice.

We’ve been back about three weeks now and some days Australia feels like a dream – sort of like the one that farm girl with the little dog from Kansas had. I mean, it makes sense – we both had to travel a very long way to discover that there’s no place like Oz.

**Wishing sunny days for these dear hearts until we meet again.**

Bonus! We had a mini reunion with Annie and Helen – cuties we met on our tour of NZ last year. They met us for dinner one night in Sydney. One of the desserts of travel – the wonderful people you meet along the way. **And if they happen to be Aussies, well, good on ya!**

**Our Tour Director Christin was a ripper – that’s Aussie for fantastic! Here she is under the Sydney Harbor Bridge. @trafalgartravel @aatkings**

**Actual footage of me when we arrived home after 20 plus hours of flying.**

Mistaken identity

Tilda Swinton has long been one of my favorite actors and style icons. She’s tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful. I am none of those things and perhaps that is why she so utterly mesmerizes me. Sometimes she can look almost otherworldly. And she always has fabulous hair. So, earlier this year, I decided to try and copy her hairstyle. Hey, be kind, it has been a shitty year so far, and I needed a diversion from the end of democracy.

In January, I showed my hairdresser, Kelly, a picture of Swinton and shared my hair goals with her. I adore Kelly and I have been seeing her for longer than I can remember. I think of her as a dear friend who happens to also cut my hair. Kelly looked at the photo on my phone and said cheerfully, “I think your hair would look great like that.” Everyone needs a Kelly in their life.

She told me it would be a process and would entail growing out the top of my hair longer than I’ve been accustomed to. So, Kelly went to work, and I was surprisingly pleased with the results. In fact, I was feeling pretty cool about my new hair. My dear wife really liked it, but only a couple of friends noticed. Still, I had a little Tilda swagger that gave me a much-needed lift.

**Twinning with Tilda – use your imagination – and maybe photoshop some lipstick on me**

That’s how it started. Now, I’ll tell you how it’s going. I’ve been called “sir” twice in the past month. This is really nothing new for me. That’s happened throughout most of my adult life – since I cut my long hair off in the mid 80’s. I’m going to be honest – it stings. And I just don’t get it. Yes, I’m a gold star lesbian, but I’ve never purchased men’s clothing – I mean, I don’t even own a flannel shirt. And I always carry a purse – not a Velcro wallet stuffed in my back pocket. I may not present particularly feminine by classic definition, but I move through the world that way. That is who I am, so it is a very unpleasant experience to be identified otherwise.

It happened recently when I was leaving a shoe store. A teenaged boy was walking out ahead of me and held the door for an older man coming in who looked at me and said loudly, “After you, sir.” I could feel the familiar rush of embarrassment and the hot tears that fill my eyes but never quite fall as I made a quick dash to my car. I was not in a great mood that day anyway and my reserves were low, and I just sat in my car and cried. Okay, I might have also visualized saying “fuck off” to the guy who called me sir.

**Stuart Smalley knows that it’s a really good feeling when the inside matches what you see in the mirror.**

On the drive home I started thinking about my trans friends – many of the female ones who are far more feminine than me. And I wondered how horrible it must be to be deliberately and forcefully misgendered by the government of your own country. The trans community was the low hanging fruit for Trump and the MAGAs during last year’s election. About 1% of Americans identify as transgender – approximately 2.3 million people – and Republicans spent $215 million on anti-trans ads. Manufacturing fear is expensive, but effective.

Imagine having to misgender yourself on a passport application for fear of being denied approval. And that’s just one of the hideous ramifications of Trump’s assault on trans Americans. People will lie and people will die. But at least Nancy Mace won’t have to worry about getting raped when she pees in a Capitol restroom.

Perspective is a good thing, so I’ve given myself a reset on how to react when I’m called sir, because it will most certainly happen again. I’m going to try and not go to a dark place. I know who I am and most days, I like that person. I’m the kind of person who smiles and holds the door for strangers. And besides, I have fabulous hair.

**I see my trans friends and I love them.**
**Original art by Cat Rocketship Art. instagram.com/@cat_rocketship**

Baby steps

It’s a good thing to have a nag in your life. Disclaimer: I am not referring to my dear wife. No, my nag of late is my friend Mitch. He recently retired after a lengthy and noble career in social work, and he apparently has more time on his hands, particularly for nagging. Lucky me.

I worked with Mitch for several years at an AIDS service organization. He was a case manager, and I was the executive director. So, in theory, I was his boss, but I’m fairly sure I took more orders, okay suggestions, from him than the other way around. That was probably a good thing because Mitch certainly had the harder job.

**Mitch has the kind of face you don’t want to disappoint.**

Case managers are the heart and soul of any social service agency. They are charged with assessing a client’s needs, developing a care plan, connecting them with available services and support systems, and monitoring progress.

One of Mitch’s greatest strengths as a case manager was his persistence. He was a relentless problem solver in the face of regular disappointments from clients. He was an encourager but never a hand holder and he was all about accountability. I always knew he was an excellent case manager, but lately, I feel like one of his clients.

Here’s the thing – I haven’t written anything for my blog since the inauguration in January. I’m fairly certain Mitch is the only one who has noticed that. He has emailed me no less than half a dozen times in the past seven weeks asking when I’m posting something. He started out gently by sending me things other folks had written about organizing and resisting under the new regime. Mitch is a radical left lunatic like me and has always made me feel good about my writing. He also knows that writing is how I process the world.

I wanted to write, and I needed to write, but I felt like a bag of wet laundry mildewing in the corner. I was so immobilized by disappointment and grief that I didn’t even look at my laptop for weeks. Then Mitch started emailing more often and less gently. I replied to one of his emails by thanking him for the needed nudge. He wrote back, “Remember, I was a case manager for a long time – and a big part of the job is to be a professional nag.” That made me smile and open my laptop.

So, here we are. This post is not going to win Blog of the Month, but it’s a start. And it’s a good reminder to check in with your people if you haven’t heard from them in a while. These days are long and chaotic with a pulsing undercurrent of anxiety for all of us alternately dismayed, worried, and terrified about what’s happening in our country.

I feel so thin these days. No, not in an Ozempic way, but like an onion – my emotional reserves have been peeled away day by day. I’ve always cried easily – more often at happy things. I got that from my dad. His mantra was “Only cry in victory, never in defeat.” I thought I was going to need an IV after the Christmas episode of All Creatures Great and Small and I really needed a cuddle with Mrs. Hall. I want to feel safe, but I can’t ever remember feeling so uncertain about my country, and I’ve been trying to channel some of my dad’s eternal optimism that might still be floating around in the ether.

And there have been some small victories of late, well, maybe not political ones but moments to celebrate, nonetheless. My nephew and his wife texted me a video last week. My great-nephew Vann, who recently turned one, had taken his first steps. He was a bit wobbly and unsure as he made his way to a little table in his playroom. And when he turned around to the enthusiastic cheers of his parents, he was the picture of pure unbridled joy.

**Little feet, big steps – Vann celebrates with his daddy**

I’ve watched the video about thirty-seven times and I’m not ashamed to say that I have moisture in the eye area every time. I’ve been wobbling since the election, but I’m taking some unsteady steps to find my way back to joy. You know they say joy is a form of resistance and it certainly sounds a lot better than a bag of wet laundry.

So, I promise I’ll share a better blog soon, but for now, I’m following Vann’s lead and bravely moving forward. Besides, I really need to get my case manager off my back.

Calling for backup

**Escape from the oligarchy – paddle faster!**

I knew Monday was going to be a historically shitty day. I mean, come on, how often is a convicted felon inaugurated as president of the United States? Note: That will be a future Jeopardy question years from now. Anyway, I knew I had to be proactive in my approach to surviving the coronation of Donald Trump, so I did what any reasonable radical left lunatic would do – I got the hell out of town. Yep, strategery as W would say.

My dear wife and I and two of our besties, Lori and Sue, loaded up the SUV and headed for Augusta, GA. Hold on, I know you’re judging our destination. We wanted somewhere that wasn’t that far of a drive (3:45) and a location that was further south so weather would less likely be an issue. We booked a pretty Airbnb apartment in a renovated house built in 1860 and conveniently located near downtown.

**Just some Dixie chicks still not ready to make nice. (Sue, me, Joy, and Lori)**

I’m sure Augusta feels different in April when The Masters golf tournament is in town and the azaleas are in bloom and well, there are people everywhere. In the bleak midwinter, Augusta made Winston Salem look like Manhattan. Not a lot was going on over MLK weekend and that was just fine for us. We strolled the Riverwalk along the Savannah River and had two of the best dinners out I’ve had in a long time. And we went to the Morris Museum of Art and heard live music and toured their current collection. And the best part? I didn’t think of Donald Trump once. Mission accomplished.

**Sometimes you just need a walk along a river.**

Actually, that’s not entirely true. My friend Ed lives in Crozet, VA and grew up in Augusta. His wife Chris saw a Facebook post I had made and knew that I was in Ed’s old stomping ground. She texted me the address of Ed’s childhood home and on Saturday afternoon we did a little drive by. I thought it would be cute to take a funny selfie in front of Ed’s house and send it to him. Augusta suffered a lot of damage during Helene and I was afraid the old home place might look really bad. Turns out, it was worse than I could have imagined.

**Sorry, Ed – you really can’t go home again.**

Sunday night, we made pizza and watched football. [Insert lesbian jokes.] And I saw that I had an in-box message from my old pal Kerrie in Greensboro. We aren’t close friends, but I’m always delighted when I run into him. He has a wicked smart political mind and we always seem to get each other. He said that he would be thinking about me on Monday and gave me a humorous pep talk about all the work we have in front of us. He told me that it was going to be a rough few years, but “one day I will wake up to the good news that he is dead, and I’m not and on that day, there will be much rejoicing.” That’s Kerrie and I was so touched that he reached out.

I woke up Monday morning with an undeniable feeling of dread, but before I could go down the rabbit hole of despair, I got a text from my good friend Sue in St. Paul. Sue is 82 and moved to a retirement home in MN a few years ago to be near family. She had a stroke a handful of years ago – not that you’d ever know it – and we have had a daily wellness check-in since then. She texts me when she gets up – which is almost the same time as me, even with the hour time difference. There have been plenty of days, especially during this election year, that I’m pretty sure she was checking in on me. Either way, it’s a lovely way to start one’s day.

**Sue always has my back and she always has a plan. And that plan has a to do list.**

Sue told me that she had invited some of her like-minded friends to join her at 10:30 AM to walk 2,029 steps in their high-rise building. Why that number? That represents the year that Trump will (maybe) no longer be president. Folks on walkers and wheelchairs were included and everyone was invited to “walk” as little or much as they wished. They planned to walk the four floors, climbing the stairs or taking the elevator as they got their steps in.

Sue’s Senior March in her retirement home sounds like a great plot for a Netflix movie and my dread disappeared for a few hours. I hope when I’m Sue’s age, I can be a wise owl, too.

I looked at social media a bit on the drive home – no, I wasn’t driving – and saw Melania’s hat and Hillary laughing about the Gulf of America. I couldn’t look at any photos of Kamala because I knew I would cry – well, cry some more. There have been a lot of tears this month.

**Honestly, good on her – I wouldn’t want to have to kiss him either.**

Our drive home was filled with laughter, 70s music, and M&Ms – girls gotta do what they gotta do. And I saw that I had an in-box condolence message from Walter, my emotional support Canadian that I met on our trip to Spain and Portugal in 2019. Sometimes I think Walter knows more about US politics than I do and I always appreciate his insights and sense of humor – like when he refers to Canada as “not the 51^st state.”

Lori and Sue dropped us off in front of our condo and I noticed that my neighbor had finally taken down her Trump yard sign. For a millisecond, I was happy. And then I saw that she had put up a huge Trump flag on the side of her condo – featuring a picture of Trump with some idiotic saying like “We took back our country.” But wait, that’s not all. She also put up one of those garden flags that says God Guns & Trump. Bloody hell! I could feel my face turning red and I was consumed by anger. I can try to not look at Trump for four years, but I can’t not look out my front door.

My wife pulled me inside and I’m fairly certain she was wondering how she could live with me for the next four years. I’m sure she’s open to suggestions. Fostering might be on the table.

That evening we drank wine and avoided the television like it was radioactive. I thought I would stay up and watch the College Football National Championship game, but I just didn’t have the heart or energy for it. So, I dragged myself to bed and was scrolling through my phone and saw that I had an Instagram message from the daughter of one of my best friends from 4^th grade. She has two young daughters and lives in VA. She sent a photo of one of her girls watching Kamala be sworn in as vice president four years ago. Her message had no words – just the broken heart emoji.

**I have to believe that she’ll see a woman sworn in as president one day.**

Even though her message gutted me, it also gave me some embers of hope and comfort. This is how we will get through these next four years – by checking in with each other and lifting each other up when we’re down. Yes, there will be a shit ton of hard work, too, but I hear from a reliable source that hard work is good work.

And when we fight, well, we’re bound to win again one of these days.

Keep fighting, friends. I love us.

**Stay focused on what’s most important to you these next four years. (Carbs highly recommended.)**

Swing for the fences

“The art of being wise is knowing what to overlook.” ~ Henry James

The election has been over for a month and three days (yes, I’m counting) and my neighbor still has her Trump sign up. I live in a condo development, so my neighbor’s tiny yard is just a few steps from my front door. Every morning, I wake up and look out the window – and there it is – the five-letter word that compels me to spew four letter ones.

It’s not just the sign – but that would be enough to unhinge me these days. My neighbor came to the U.S. from Cuba to escape a dictatorship and now she supports another dictator. Why? I would love to ask her, but she speaks little English, and I speak no Spanish.

Honestly, I’m more sad than mad about it. I have always liked her – she lives with her elderly mother and another woman close to her age. They keep their condo looking neat and pristine and they wash their cars more often than I floss. They are pleasant neighbors and now I think they are trolling me. For the record, I couldn’t take my Harris sign down until last week. It just made it all feel so final.

**Kamala served meals for Central Kitchen on Thanksgiving Day. I am grateful for the joy and hope she offered us.**

I’ve been hibernating since the election – mostly for my own protection. I have been short tempered and mad at the world, well, specifically the 49.9% of voters who elected Trump. I’ve been heartbroken and feeling hopeless at times. I’m keeping my cable news fast and finding solace in the quiet. Until I see that damn sign.

My dear wife tells me to ignore it, and I’ve tried to do that to no avail. So instead, I fantasize about pulling the sign out and throwing it in the dumpster – a perfect metaphor. But I would never take down someone’s political sign, especially if that someone had a Ring Doorbell camera.

I assume the sign will come down eventually, at least I hope so because I am fairly sure I can’t convince my wife to move. And even in my depressed state, I know it’s not really about the sign – but how the sign makes me feel differently about my neighbor. And I don’t even know my neighbor’s name. It’s not like those of you who now feel differently about folks you have known and loved for a long time. My sister is struggling deeply with two such relationships. I wish I could comfort her, but I got nothing – save for sadness and bewilderment, oh, and righteous anger on my good days.

I’m taking time to grieve what might have been and reflecting on what I want my next four years to look like. I know for certain that I want them to be spent working for something rather than against someone and I know there are almost seventy-five million folks out there like me. And there’s probably a couple of you in that group that know a guy who knows about taking out yard signs.

Just kidding.

I’m going to leave you with a sweet epilogue to my recent post about my friend Will.

Here’s an excerpt from that post:

The best advice I’ve gotten as I’ve been wallowing in despair came from my young friend Will, the son of one of my best friends from fourth grade. Will is in his late 30’s and works as an accountant. He is differently abled and like all of us who represent a minority, is worried about what the Trump administration will mean for his community. We love to talk sports – especially since my wife has below zero interest in them. He told me the story of how Jackie Robinson was angry and worn down by the racism he was experiencing as the first African American to play in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s wife simply told him, “Keep showing up.”

And that’s what Will said to me at the end of our long conversation late last week when I was feeling so hopeless – “Keep showing up, Addison.”

So, I came home last night from dinner with friends and had a package in the mail from Will. Wait for it…

Yep. Will sent me my very own Jackie Robinson action figure. Are you kidding me? And they say there’s no crying in baseball.

Batter up, friends. We’ve got work to do.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.