All posts tagged: gay

La Croix: My Love for You is Pure

A few months ago, the re-vamped NY Times magazine ran a “letter of recommendation” (really just a blog posting, right?) about La Croix seltzer. I was shocked to read a silly, literary endorsement for something I already hold very dear. But when I’d finished the article, I realized the writer (Mary H.K. Choi) struck me as a cynic justifying her need to be cool. Her much cooler co-workers were addicted to my favorite drink, and Mary followed that crowd, but still needing to get in her self-serving jokes about her partying ways. (“Don’t worry. I’m not THAT uncool.”) Filled with millenial cliches lamenting her poverty and fabulosity, Choi didn’t write an ode to La Croix, she wrote an embarrassed confession. Eh, get over yourself, Gavin. You aren’t published in the NY Times. Brass tacks: I’m bitter because I loved LaCroix seltzer first; and my love is pure. I stumbled upon La Croix on the bottom shelf of Target. Immediate addiction followed. I conceded that Choi’s nod to the in-crowd is correct, “Everyone knows pamplemousse is …

Little Girl/Gay Music

Driving up the Merritt Parkway and listening to Disney Pandora with my boys a few weeks ago, I found myself jamming to “When Will My Life Begin?” from Tangled. I’ve never seen Tangled, but I couldn’t resist that song. I know. I’m a grown man bopping my head to silly princess music. But trust me: it is so catchy. I felt silly, I admit. I’m a musician and enjoy all types of music. But the under-sized Napoleons in my life dictate “ABC’s” or “Princesses” when we drive. And I find myself bouncing my head to many of the songs on Pandora’s “Kid’s Pop” station. But don’t we all secretly like Katy Perry? Just a little bit? I mean, when she was on that awkward firework-spewing contraption at the Super Bowl, didn’t we all feel a little thrill? Well I did. I’ve always had a penchant for catchy pop music, within reason. Pop radio stations are awful for more than 15 minutes. Everything’s interchangeable. Too much is even too superficial for me. But those summer anthems …

A 3rd Few Words about Surrogacy

So we got paired with this amazing woman who was willing to get knocked up by us. Our surrogacy agency had a thorough protocol for making matches-made-in-heaven between surrogate carriers and parents-to-be: 1. Phone interview, 2. Home visit, 3. One day spent hanging out. The agency understandably wanted all parties to feel comfortable with each other. In our phone interview, the mediator asked “How much contact do you want with the surrogate during and after the pregnancy?” Obviously the agreement we’re forging is profound and involved, but I didn’t think we needed to force a family bond. An un-forced, organic friendship would be ideal. During the interview, Sheryl said, “If we’re friends during and after, that’s great. But we don’t need to force anything.” This vegetarian, non-smoking, non-drinking, non-caffeine-drinking, marathon runner was my kinda organic friend. As luck would have it, two weeks after our phone conversation, I was in Denver. I arranged to have lunch with her family in Colorado Springs, her hometown. Hers was the same highway exit as the national headquarters of …

A Few Words About Surrogacy

A friend pointed out to me the other day, “You have two kids. And not by accident. Like…you’re complaining but you chose to be here. Like there’s no ‘oops, the condom didn’t work’ or ‘oops, my birth control didn’t work’ or ‘oops…’ of any kind. You chose this.” No. Doubt. About. It. So let’s talk about the choices. I knew I wanted to be a father and, furthermore, I was meant to be a father. It was in my cards. My partner was understandably hesitant. He’d lived life devoted to his own goals. So for six months we discussed parenthood. He asked all the right questions. And I had quick responses. What if I’m too selfish? I know you’re not. The way you dote on our dog and even the way you love me…you have too much love to give. I know you’ll melt with a child. I don’t know how to deal with children or relate to them! You’re like Dr. Doolittle. Animals and children gravitate to you. What if I get a conducting …

Giving Thanks: My Mom Made Me a Dad

Last night, as I opened a beer seconds after putting my boys down, I felt gratitude that they most likely won’t wake for 10½ hours. I am so lucky to have sleepers. As I sipped, I thought about gratitude. It was a Hallmark Channel moment. And I was reminded: the strongest thanks I can give this (and every) year is to my mom…for making me a dad. I write about her in the past tense. Six years ago, she died unexpectedly from a cardial arrhythmia. Doctors said it’s the way we all want to go: one second you’re here, then you’re not. I was suddenly an orphan (my father passed when I was 8 years old). There are worse tragedies in the world, but in our culture, 32 is young to be parentless. Thanks to

MOM’S NIGHT OFF?

When Big E was seven weeks old, a friend invited my partner and me to an antique auction in Nowheresville, Connecticut. My first auction. I’m always game for “firsts”. There were hilarious (shocking) items for sale. Of note was a box of lawn boy/mammy figurines, including a 7-inch Aunt Jemima iron doorstop. Not all of Connecticut is Martha Stewartville. We ended up buying a 5-foot tall gramophone. It collected dust for two years, then we donated it to a flea market. But I digress. Big E got fussy, predictably, when serious bidding began. So I took him into an adjacent room where a woman sold hot dogs, coffee and cookies. She had a mullet half way down her back. On her sweatshirt was an airbrushed wolf howling at the moon. It was awesome. Not that I’m furthering rural stereotypes, but across the street was a drag racing track. Anyway. She ooh’d and ahh’d over Big E and marveled at me keeping him quiet. We made small talk about regular baby things: birth weight, sleeping, etc. …