To Be Young, Fabulous, and Mormon

I've never been too much of a party guy. I like to go out approximately once a month to remind myself that I'm still in my twenties and because my gym shorts have gotten too dirty to wear around the house. It's a nice reminder that I have other clothes not meant for sleeping or work. But all in all, bars and clubs are not where I thrive because in DC, it's a whole bunch of overworked twenty somethings that like to dance along to a sped up version of Sam Smith's "Stay With Me," while buying copious amount of overpriced drinks. They're sad and tired and horny, and that makes me uncomfortable. I pray for them every night I get home from going out.
However, I do love a good house party. It's nice because rarely ever is it too loud and you can bring your own libations and drink directly out of the wine bottle. It gives you an opportunity to actually speak to the people around you, which is a lost art with my generation (which probably explains why bars and clubs are so popular). In college, I was in a fraternity, and I tried desperately to turn our parties into classier affairs with themes and decorations, but the closest we ever got was a theme called "Mythical Creatures and Substitute Teachers," which devolved into college students grinding about each other wearing thick rimmed glasses and fairy wings. Before DC, a house party ultimately meant that there would be a lot of Bassnectar and tequila shots. I just turned on a Bassnectar song to refresh my memory, and I literally got alcohol poisoning.

Literally a picture taken at my house last year. Or
from Brothers and Sisters. Whatever.

So last year, when I moved in with Mormons (long story, short: Craigslist is a sneaky bitch), I considered the idea of the house party obsolete. They were older, and I had long forgotten my hopes of a refined, well-planned soiree. I would live with the Mormons, and from time to time, I hoped that maybe we would gather to watch a rerun of Seinfeld and talk about how crazy those Jews in New York are. But it turned out to be more isolating than I could ever imagine. In the first couple weeks, I was invited to a small dinner party on our back porch, and it was gorgeous with white Christmas lights strewn about the tree that hung over the patio. There was conversation and laughs and it was incredible. It was like sitting on the set of Brothers and Sisters, except everyone was painfully conservative and the closest we came to even mentioning sex was when I accidentally grazed my friend's boob reaching for the green beans.
After that lone dinner party, I was essentially banished to live a life of solitude. I will always wonder if it's because they saw that infamous boob graze. After a couple of months went by though, I slowly began to befriend the other guy who lived upstairs. He, too, was Mormon, but he liked to bend the rules a bit--I found this out after I discovered that he lifted by wine glasses for a date that he went on. After I discovered his secret about drinking and presumably fornicating, he slowly brought me into the Mormon fold. I mean, I would scarcely be allowed to enter a Temple or do anything that involved the Mormon religion, but he did watch Survivor with me on occasion, and he spoke to me when he came in the house, and that was enough for me, ya know?
Another month went by, and suddenly an event invite popped up on Facebook. My roommate David had invited me to "AN AUTUMN AFFAIR." It was handily the most elegant event title that I had ever received an as I opened up the event page, there was a slew of information about a baking competition and musical acts and a "rustic fall dinner." There was even a hashtag for the event--I died. When I came back to life, I called my friend Liz and said, "We officially have an in to fancy DC life. Come to this party with me." She immediately agreed and we spent the next two weeks coordinating outfits. A couple days after I accepted the event, the host of the party "liked" that I was going, and like a high school girl, I called Liz and said, "He liked that we're going! God, we're so in, I can't even handle it."
But as the day of the event came closer, I began to wonder if we should even be going to the party. It was at someone's house we had never met, and it was way above my social class. It was clear that there would be no Bassnectar or grinding to be had. This was everything that I dreamed of, but everything I feared at the same time. And for the event to be so high scale, it also said that it was "BYOB friendly," which opened up a whole plethora of questions about the evening. Should I bring wine or liquor? Definitely not liquor because that requires some kind of mixer, unless you want to come off as a full-fledged alcoholic. Beer? Maybe, but nothing that comes from the low-class end of the beer aisle. It would have to be something craft, or seasonal at least. Eventually I settled on wine because, duh.

What in the world even is this?

David offered to drive Liz and me to the party with him, which is good, because we probably would have not been able to find the place otherwise. We parked on the street and walked around the back of a gorgeous two story house, and there it was in all its glory. Paper lanterns filled with candles lined the sidewalk that led up to a huge burlap banner that had "AN AUTUMN AFFAIR" written in cursive with fall-colored accents. Liz leaned over to me and whispered, "What is this even?" and we scampered inside. It was every white girl's fantasy--as if Serena van der Woodsen literally vomited out perfection into someone's backyard. There were pumpkins and corn stalks and a HAND BUILT STAGE made out of distressed barn wood. In the back were pots of chili and soup and pans full of fall-themed desserts. It was everything that I had read about in books and seen in television shows, but nothing I thought actually existed in real life. At the beverage station (because that's a thing that people do, I guess), we were told we could put our drinks down. That's the moment when I started to doubt the party that we were at. There was a small ice bucket tucked neatly under the table with two bottles of wine and a bottle of apple schnapps and about four beers. As for the table itself, it had water and Diet Coke for days, but not a drop of alcohol out in the open. I shrugged it off and figured more people would bring libations as the party got more full.
I didn't notice the table for a while though because Liz and I were making our way through the party--around the bonfire to the table of chili and fancy cheeses and baked goods. Everything matched and had name cards, in case you weren't sure exactly what kind of upper-middle class cuisine you were about to eat. The disposable flatware and plates were the nice kind--the type of stuff that my family might have tried to wash and reuse if no one were looking. It was a world that I didn't quite understand, but I wanted to be part of it. We were careful about what we said and who we spoke to, already hoping that if we were on our best behavior, we might be considered for next year's invitation list, but there were simply things we weren't prepared for. Liz and I stopped to talk to a couple and they seemed to like us. I told them about my job in marketing and Liz talked about working in public relations, and then they asked,

Oh, are you two married?
Oh.. no, we're not married.
So, you're dating?
Nope. We're just really good friends.

They stopped for a minute and just kind of looked at us, "Oh, well that's nice, too," and then the conversation was over. I looked over at Liz, confused as to what we had done. We live in DC, so everyone is all "all the women, who independent, throw ya hands up at me," but this time, it was almost like... not being married to Liz was somehow wrong. I was about three glasses of wine in, and Liz wasn't far behind, and that's when we noticed. The party seemed to be split into parties of two, all of the commingling with other duos, and the biggest difference was that not a single person had anything other than a Diet Coke in their hand...

Hand. Built. Stage.

My second family back home is Mormon, so this wasn't my first rodeo. I started putting all of the pieces together. The elaborate spread of food that an entire army couldn't eat, a party theme that emphasized the accents of the season, party favors that had an especially strong reliance on DIY projects, background music that leaned heavily toward the folk and indie genres, and most of all... Diet Coke. Diet Coke all over the damn place. This was not a regular party. This was a Mormon festival, and I hated myself for not being able to tell sooner. I mean... there were candles in MASON JARS. Everything screamed that this was put together by a Millennial Latter-Day Saint follower, but I was too encapsulated by the presentation. It was more over the top than anything I had seen before, and as soon as I told Liz, we ran in search for David. We needed shelter. We needed direction! We were lost lambs in a pack of... well, lambs.
But as we ran up to the porch, he appeared. Not David, but the host of the party. We hadn't been introduced yet, but it was clear that he had planned it. He was a vision in plaid and thick-rimmed glasses, encapsulated in a ray of light making him appear as Joseph Smith, Martha Stewart, and Carson from Queer Eye from the Straight Guy, simultaneously. Yes, that is correct--my suspicions were correct: this was more than just a Mormon party. This party was designed by the most powerful of creative forces--a gay Mormon. He welcomed us and asked us if we had a drink. It seemed like a trick question, so we just kind of stared at him. There were no right answers anymore. He just kind of looked at us and said, "Well, the beverage table is over there." I looked back over and there was no more alcohol than before. There might have been more Diet Coke, but definitely no more alcohol. Diet soda everywhere, but not a drop to drink.
Seeing that we were confused by the notion that we could continue to drink, he ushered us over to the beverage table and made us a drink that we later named "fallmosas." He mixed apple cider with champagne and said, "I have some people you might like hanging out with." He walked us back over to the porch, and then around a corner tucked away from the rest of the party. There stood three gay guys and a woman who clearly loved Merlot. It was obvious that we had been relegated to the sinner's corner of the party, but it was okay, because these people seemed to understand the importance of "the sauce." We exchanged notes on how we had come to arrive there. One of the guys had found the host of the party on Grindr and then invited a couple other friends along. The wine lady knew him through some kind of Romney campaign effort. I told them the story of how I was living in the Mormons, and they all waited with bated breath, wondering what interesting facts I would reveal.
But the truth is, there wasn't a lot to reveal at that point. I was only a month in or so, and nothing about my roommates was interesting because they were Mormon. The best stories I had about them were simply because they were just really strange people in general. Liz and I watched the rest of the party unfold from afar, tucked safely in our corner of shame. We both knew that this would be the last time we'd ever be invited to a party this nice, unless one of us threw one ourselves... which essentially meant if Liz threw it, because there's no way I could stay invested in an event long enough to pull off all of the stops this party had.
For the rest of fall, we reminisced about the party and attempted to recreate the fallmosas well into November. We admired the domesticity needed to put together such an event and would sometimes wonder how someone could have enough time to plan something like that out. While there are hardworking gay Mormons out there building distressed barnwood stages and planning out elaborate fall meals, I'm blogging about them and/or eating Nutella directly out of the jar while watching The Help. I suppose we all have our place in this world.
I have long sense moved out of the Mormon house. David moved to Colorado and has been spotted exploring the mountains of Brazil (no, seriously. He just posted a picture next to Christ the Redeemer, like it wasn't a big deal. If you ever read this, you're one of my favorite people I've ever met--you are missed). After that, I was banished away to live three months in my upstairs room alone with only a Roku and a bottle of hot sauce. I eventually received a text explaining that I would not be invited back once the lease was up. But that party will live in infamy. As for my own party planning aspirations, I will just leave that to the experts. Some people are meant to construct a party that balances the seemingly complex combination of gingham and burlap, and some people are meant to just admire it.

Shit Happens

A little over a month ago, I had something happen to me that I never thought could happen to me; something I like to believe happens to more people than you would think. I contemplated on whether or not I should come forward and tell my story, and after a lot of reflection and inner-turmoil, I've decided that it is time. I do not tell this story to make you laugh and/or chuckle--though I'm assuming that some of you will. I tell this story so that others with the same story will feel comfortable coming forth and telling theirs.

There's a lot of difficult things that come with adulthood: bills, work, household duties, increased responsibility across the board, relationships--especially relationships. The bonds you share with friends and family and significant others (you know, if you're into that whole sister wives kind of situation), become more complex with the strain on your time and attention. Inevitably, complications arise and your relationships become more and more taxing. You start to feel resentment for those around you because they're not coming through for you in the ways they used to--you're essentially left with just yourself. It's bad enough when your friends shit on you--but it's even worse when you shit on yourself.
After an exciting episode of Grey's Anatomy, I decided to step outside and give my mom a call, because that's what my life has turned into--watching my shows, then giving my mom a call to do a thirty minute recap of an hour long program. I noticed that I was starting to get off track about this season's constant turmoil between Meredith and Cristina, so I told my mom, in my standard candid fashion, that I needed to get off the phone, go inside, and take a poop. In her standard fashion, she said, "Thank you for that overshare," and then I went inside.

As I stepped in the doorway, I thought to myself, Oh gosh, I really have to go to the bathroom, and then a couple steps later, standing in the living room right there in front of Kerry Washington and the entire cast of Scandal it happened: I pooped on myself. It was as if my body had just completely abandoned all communication with my mind. My body had gone full-Sarah-Palin-rogue, and all I could do was stand there and take it all in. You always imagine what it might be like if you pooped on yourself, but from personal experience, you really have no idea what it's actually like until, well, it happens.
I shuffled (because full fledged running seemed like a terrible idea) to the downstairs bathroom so that I could assess the damage and do as much ground zero clean up as possible. I looked over and saw the most terrifying thing that you can see post-tragedy: no toilet paper. At this point, I was completely out of options other than relocation. However, that meant going upstairs--the downstairs is so much safer because everything is hardwood, but everything upstairs is carpeted, and that just seemed like I was asking for a disaster. Plus, no one was downstairs, and if I trudged up the stairs, I ran the risk of running into someone and potentially having to explain what happened--I wasn't ready for that, not then. Without any other solution, I opened the door and started to leave and there stood my roommate, David. Where the hell did he come from? Feeling like I needed to explain why I was in the downstairs bathroom, I quickly said, "No toilet paper." I'm not really sure why I said it because he never asked why I was in there or why I was leaving, but it felt right at the time. Then he reached over to the counter and said, "Wanna try out the paper towels?" Um, no David. I don't want to try the paper towels. I want to go back in time seven minutes and undo all of this. That's what I want. I laughed and started to walk away and he said, "Dude, you okay? You're walking like you have a stick up your ass." Ironically, that was the complete opposite of the situation.
I made it to the upstairs bathroom, but the damage was worse now. The only surefire way to deal with this was just to evacuate the situation entirely and dispose of any evidence that it ever happened. I got into the shower to try and wash away all of the shame, but no matter how hard I scrubbed, the disappointment was there for good. I imagine that anyone who defecates in their pants is never quite the person they were before the incident. Something inside of you, not outside, changes... maybe it's that you're incredibly humbled by the unpredictability of bodily functions. Either way, I finished showering and stepped onto the bathroom mat and realized there was a whole other situation at my feet... literally. The jeans I was wearing escaped any damage, but it's faithful friend on the inside was not so lucky. They were the Bubba of this Forrest Gump story, and much like Bubba, we had to tell the skivvies goodbye.
So I ran to my room and grabbed an extra bag from 7-11 that I had laying around. I placed our faithful friend in the bag and decided that once everyone had gone to bed, I would take them away and dispose of them--because no self-respecting man can put his dirty business in his own trash can. I sat down to get on my laptop, and I felt them sitting over there in the corner... staring at me or something, so I went downstairs back to the living room. I couldn't bear the guilt of having them right there in front of me, whilst Facebook-ing. They would be fine on their own until later when I would run them off to a public dumpster or something.
I stayed up and watched Carrie that night, and at 1:00am, I knew it was time. The deed had to be carried out. I called my mom again, because it only seemed appropriate as she was the first person I called when it happened. She got all the laughs in that she needed to, so she was going to stay up and be my phone accomplice as I put an end to the horror story that was my fateful Thursday evening. I had pre-decided upon 7-11, since I already had the evidence in the appropriate bag. As I started to pull in, a cop pulled in behind me really close and followed me into the parking lot. He pulled up beside of me and sat there, staring. It was as if an officer had been watching me all night, and as I got in my car, he radio-ed in and said, Um, we have a number 2 on our hands. Follow the suspect to see if he disposes on his messy drawers. Copy? 
Under pressure, especially from cops, I do what most Americans do and act suspiciously as possible. Suddenly, I started using overly-active hand gestures and laughing for no apparent reason to try and look "natural," but in retrospect, I just looked crazy. The cop was not leaving. After talking on the phone for about five minutes, I decided I had to go in and buy something. After I got back out to my car, he just sat there looking at me, and I realized--I'm going to have to bear this burden for a few more hours. I drove home and put the evidence in my trunk, simply because there was no other place to put it. Eventually, I did dispose of what needed to be taken care of nearly 24 hours after the original incident took place.
In short, shitting your pants is actually a lot more complex, humiliating, and difficult than you would think. I hear my friends talk about scary situations or really intense movies and respond with, "I almost shit my pants." But to me, it's not a joke. It's not something you laugh at, and it's not something you can relate to. Shitting your pants is a unique experience like fighting in the Vietnam War or watching the Lifetime remake of Steel Magnolias in one continuous sitting. Shitting your pants is not something that you ever truly come back from, and it's definitely not something that you joke about. But like a lot of the hardships that I've overcome in my life, I'm a better person for it. If you've pooped on yourself, be brave and remember that you're not alone. Be strong enough to tell your story, because like most things in life, we can only move forward by moving together.

Pumpkin Spice, Miley, and the Trouble with White People

White people must have lost their minds today. It's been so hot outside and now, out of no where (or rather the residual effects of the underwhelming Hurrican Karen), the temperature has suddenly dropped. This anti-spike in temperature is surely going to signal a turn toward fall. The leaves will be falling soon and hoards of Caucasians will be heading to the pumpkin farm or the corn maze, adorned with scarves (though it's not cold enough) and pumpkin spiced lattes (though they're overpriced), and mmmmm, it will just be wonderful. It's what we do every year around this time, because, well we're a predictable race. Similar to bears, fall time is the last hoorah before white people go inside for the winter, only to emerge again to Instagram everything about spring. We run to craft stores and collect as many holiday-themed collectibles that we can and then we craft our asses of. Hobby Lobbys and Michael's across the nation feel our wrath as we leave their stores in shambles to craft and craft and craft, and that's where the problem comes in.
As of late, there has been some public conversation surrounding cultural misappropriation: let me explain what that is. It's when one race (white people) take something from another race and then claim it as their own without actually claiming it as their own. I first started noticing the term when white people in office spaces across America would simultaneously burst into Grand mal seizures while "The Harlem Shake" would play in the background. Black people responded by going on MSNBC and instructing white people how to actually do the Harlem Shake, which for the record, requires you to keep the Grand mal seizure specifically in your legs. A couple months later, white people misappropriated "twerking," a la Miley Cyrus. Again, we were doing it wrong. I'm still not exactly sure what twerking is... I believe the jury is still out on that one.
But let me clarify: saying that white people are stealing the Harlem Shake or twerking is like watching a thief rob a bank and then drop all the money before they get out the door. White people aren't stealing anything. And I would hardly say it's cultural misappropriation. I took a lot of creative writing classes in college and people would come in all the time with terrible strings of words that they would call poetry. I guess I could say that they were misappropriating poetry, but instead, I just liked to tell them in workshop that they were doing it wrong. Misappropriation is not where we should be focusing our efforts, guys. Focusing on things like that is like when Congress was freaking out about gay marriage as our economy was going down the drain. Bigger fish, y'all. Bigger fish.
I'm guilty of it, too. I'm sitting here on my eggshell colored couch, watching The Walking Dead, while working on a blog. The whiteness is getting out of control. There's a pumpkin sitting on the island in my kitchen that I plan on carving tomorrow. I'm a 23 year old man. The answer does not lie in making sure that cultural traditions are kept separate from one another... it comes in stamping out all this whiteness everywhere. I come from a home full of guns and deer heads and camouflage, so obviously my journey away from whitehood has been quite a process. However, I like to believe that I move toward becoming less and less white every day. I've always had the privilege of having a "racially aware sensei" for most of my life, guiding me through the ups and downs of what it means to be fighting a life of whiteness. It started in middle school with my friend Kierra, continued along into college where Sean took over, and finally led to post-grad where Krystal has graciously taken care of me... and that's where the story leads to: Krystal, me, and a racially charged glass of alcohol.
For my 23rd birthday, I invited all of the friends I had made in DC at the time (approximately 2.7) out for dinner and drinks. Only 1.7 of them showed up, but that wouldn't stop me from celebrating my 23rd year of life. The only issue with this birthday is that I had never been "out for my birthday" before, and I was pleasantly surprised that people tend to buy you drinks on your birthdays. My drink of choice has turned out to be a long island tea, which was apparently my dad's drink of choice when he was trollin for honeys at Buster Mugg's back in the 80s. Like father... sort of like son. Anyway, that's what people kept bringing me all night. Eventually, I was right at the point of not being able to keep any more drinks down (because birthdays are hard, get off my back), and I was sitting with Krystal and her boyfriend, Skip. My old roommate, Andrew, came over with another long island tea and offered it to me... and it was at that point that all my feelings about whiteness came bubbling over. You could say that the spirit of black America had entered my body, but that is probably a little bit presumptuous and a lotta bit racist. I'll just tell you what was said:
"I told you no," said Justin.
"But it's your birthday drinking," said Andrew
"Why are you trying to keep us down? You're always trying to keep us down," said Justin
"Who?" said Andrew
"Us," motioning to himself, Krystal, and Skip, "Us black people," said Justin
To Krystal, "You know I'm not racist, right?" said Andrew
Krystal gave the side eye.
The conversation did not stop there, as I spent at least another ten minutes explaining how Andrew was constantly trying to bring down the African American race, while calling on no other specific example other than the fact that he tried to bring me what must have been my tenth long island tea of the night, but inside, I felt like I was finally conquering the issue we've all been facing. It's not that he was taking anything from me, self-appointed representative of the African Americans. It's that he was trying to force his whiteness on me... and overall, on us. That's when it hit me. The problem with race in America does not exist because of lack of integration... the problem exists because white people are just trying to cross too many lines.
It came to my attention even more as I was checking out at Trader Joes with an organic pumpkin, some cranberry apple butter, pumpkin ravioli, and a bouquet of marigolds. I was the problem. Look at me whiting up Arlington even more than it already is. For those of you who don't know, Arlington is one of the whitest places in America. It's full of bicycles, mom and pop shops, people who are excited to take public transportation, and mostly coffee. What we need is to invite a couple of diverse friends over... no strike that. First, we need to make our traditionally white places seem less unsafe to our diverse friends, then invite them into our world. So white people, I leave you with this: leave your carts in the aisle. The organic food will be waiting when you get back. Walk out of that Trader Joe's and go wade in the water. Wade in the water, children.