There comes a time when we have to admit we just can’t handle it. I increasingly face this problem lately as I try to live up to expectations and my reputation. But sadly, my briefs can only be crammed so full. This is the reason it is necessary to abridge my articles which actually start out twice this length. With the magic computer, I rearrange, rewrite and eliminate brilliant metaphors and stunning word play to end with what you see. I might venture to say it is not unlike the sacrilege of Hamlet’s three hours being cut to a 90 minute special (on second thought … Let’s not go there).
One of my space saving creations is the gay-oriented “LGBTers.” This is half the length of “the LGBT community” and saves almost two lines by not having to write Lesbian-Gay-Bisexual-Trans …Trans; oh, oh, here we go again facing a typical dilemma. Do I write transsexual, transvestite, transgender, transgendered or all of them? Recently, the new designation trans* caused a moment of consideration, but the moment soon passed when I found this explanation on a respected Web site, “It is an effort to include all non-cisgender gender identities, including transgender, transsexual, transvestite, genderqueer, genderfluid, non-binary, genderfuck, genderless, agender, non-gendered, third gender, two-spirit, bigender, and trans man and trans woman.” Got that? Sorry, that isn’t going to work. To tell the truth, I, and I’m sure most of you, don’t understand several of the terms. This might be all well and good for the younger crowd, but we seniors didn’t grow up with so many categories. So you can see my problem. As for “non-cisgender gender,” it means … oops, sorry, out of space.
My hero has arrived
By the time you read this my partner of 41 years will have arrived from Japan and I will be set aside as manager and maintenance man of my own home. Without complaint, I have worked my fingers and knees to the bone getting everything ready, but I know he will soon take over the major duties of apartment upkeep. I try, but somehow my vacuuming, cleaning and dusting are not up to international health standards. He fusses and complains about it until I reluctantly hand the jobs over to him; likewise the oven, windows, bathroom floors and trash. He actually dusts and cleans behind (and under!) things. So cute.
Lest I give the impression of counting on his assistance for all and sundry, I do the dishes, most of the time, and I try to do more, but now that I’ve developed a terrible back pain, he won’t hear of my lifting anything. He goes so far as to carrying my shopping bags home as well as my washing basket down to the laundry room. But, he is not alone! I put the coins in and help fold the sheets. He is truly my hero. I may soon give in to his plea to help my back pain with a massage. We’ll see.
Truth to tell, on occasion I sense a subtle hint of censure. For example, I suspect his vacuuming right in the middle of Honey Boo Boo was not by chance and the other day when he was down scrubbing the kitchen floor, I leaned over him to get myself some ice cream from the freezer and pointed out a few spots he’d missed. He mumbled something in Japanese I was unfamiliar with which I tell myself was an expression of thanks.
He is really wonderful and I am fully aware of the immense value of his efforts. After all, when alone, I too am a martyr to my mop and vacuum as I am to my diet. It’s just that I’m not a fanatic.
