For years and years and years I have said that I don’t want a Blackberry. I don’t “need” one. I avoided them. I made fun of yuppies addicted to them.

Then I got promoted and one of those pesky things came with the job.

So I brought it home this weekend and after some struggle, got it set up. I though that perhaps it would be neat to be able to read my personal email on it, too. So I followed the directions to bring email from this blog and my website (my “booteman.com” email) to the device.

Well, it doesn’t work. But what’s worse, it deleted ALL of the email on my server. It is sending any new email somewhere… I can’t find where… and thus, I’ve been sabotaged by the very device that I have ridiculed for ages. Hmmm, turn-about is fair play.

Anyway, if you have sent me an email since Friday, Feb. 14, I have not received it, can’t find it, and wonder if I can get it back. I have to wait until the office opens on Tuesday (today is a holiday) so I can go crawling to my I.T. staff to beg for help.

Gotta love it — I deserve that thing’s revenge on me.

One of the ongoing challenges of having had major surgery (kidney, gall bladder, appendix) is the residual, long-term effects on how my body responds to food.

I feel sad and anxious when family or friends invite me to join them for dinner, and ask casually, “is there anything you don’t like?” I know they’re trying to be nice, and also reflect the fact that most people can eat most anything, but perhaps have a few things they don’t like. For example, my partner eats just about anything, but would prefer that I don’t serve creamed spinach or liver.

For me, I wish it were that easy. My list of what I can’t eat far exceeds the list of what I can. And while there are some foods that I don’t like — such as creamed spinach or liver — my list of “can’ts” really is that. If I eat certain foods like corn (any style), then I get really sick. Add to that reactions to certain naturally-found chemicals in foods, such as alkyloids, carotenoids, or salylicilates, and I am in trouble. Unfortunately, a lot of foods have these chemicals in them, including most vegetables and spices. Speaking of spices: don’t! Arrrgh! Mexican, Indian, or Thai foods and chili are not my friends! I once loved beans, but… instead of making me gassy as they do most people, they cause severe intestinal distress. Then add to that my one major food allergy: mustard. Put even a few drops of mustard into a salad dressing, and don’t tell me about it, and if I eat it, within a half-hour, anaphylaxis sets in. (I stop breathing. Then a trip to the hospital is in order.)

The problem is that I once had a well-balanced, varied diet. Then I had all these surgeries. When I recovered, I began to eat foods again that I had always liked and had eaten. At first the foods that didn’t agree with me just made me uncomfortable. I liked how they tasted, so when I noticed at first that I was in discomfort after eating some foods, I would just take less next time. But then the problem got worse, and as I continued to react to these foods, I developed a mild case of colitis — an inflamation of the colon. The colitis has become a permanent condition.

Doctors are baffled. Each and every one I have seen about my condition, including internists and dieticians with PhDs and all sorts of specialty degrees, have told me that they have never encountered anyone who reacts to food the way I do. At least I have some medical evidence to affirm that I am not just being “picky” when I decline to eat certain foods.

I live with this all the time. Now whenever I accidentally eat something I shouldn’t, the next day, I’m in really bad shape. What’s worse, I don’t know immediately that I ate something that I should not have eaten. I will feel fine for about 18 hours after consuming something I should not… then I have to be within running distance to … (well, you get it).

Once again I sigh deeply because tonight my niece is hosting our regular family dinner. She is a superb cook. She will be cooking a great meal, I guarantee it. She has quite a knack in the kitchen to create “masterpiece meals.” My family always raves about her cooking. And when I go, I enjoy the camaraderie with my family, the jokes, the stories, the debate, … and just sit there and sip water. My niece, bless her, has tried in the past to make “plain” foods for me, but she eventually gave up. It was too much trouble to make something separate for me and something elaborate for everyone else. I don’t blame her.

Next week, my brother wants me to attend a soup-tasting dinner with his church group. I would love to go, to be with my brother, and to meet his friends. He sent me the menu on the dinner invitation. Ugggh… it looks great, but there is nary a thing on the menu that I can manage to tolerate. I mean, I can eat it and I probably would like it… then the next day, well… I will be in “prime reaction mode.” And that won’t work because I’ll be on an airplane that day. Nothing is worse than having gastric distress and diarrhea on an airplane.

Oh fiddle-faddle. I hate having to live this way, but it’s just a chronic condition that I have to live with. That is why I do all the cooking in our household, so I can control what is prepared, how it is prepared, the ingredients, and how it is served.

Ugggh… just an insight into how I have to live. It’s not easy.

Life is short: wear your boots, and if you can eat what you like, then count your blessings. Buon appetito!

Today I will be testifying before a committee of my state’s Senate. Here’s how I am dressed — in boots and leather — to make a statement that motorcyclists are constituents, too.

I am doing this because I care about the safety and well-being of all, but especially us bikers out there.

Wish me luck!

This previous blog post explains what I am testifying about.

Last Saturday night, my motorcycle club had its annual social event. About 100 people were there. I went to it alone because my partner has absolutely no interest to go to any social events whatsoever. I don’t even think about asking him to go with me to events like this, because he hates it and I don’t want to fight about it. It’s really not that important.

This event is typical: you gather, get drinks from the bar (in my case, bottled water) and talk for a while. Then dinner is served (in this case, a buffet). After dinner, awards are presented to the most active members of the club, then a band strikes up for dancing.

Generally, I am not too keen on attending social events like this, just because they are all so predictable, bland, and boring. They usually follow the same format, and while attendees are different, they all are of “a certain age” and behave almost exactly the same way from venue to venue. I went because I am an officer in the club, and had promised to attend to bring a slide show featuring the past year’s activities.

While I like speaking with people, there are times when the conversation lags because we don’t have that much in common to talk about. I don’t have children of my own, and there is not much similarity in talking about how your nieces and nephews are doing compared with someone else’s direct offspring. While I enjoy motorcycling, I am not a mechanic nor a gizmo-guy, so I really don’t know or care much about adjustments for better horsepower or what gadget is next on the horizon to add to the bike. And most of these guys aren’t interested in local civic matters or politics, so yet again, we do not have much in common to talk about.

A couple of the people at the table where I decided to sit were much more conservative than I am in their political leanings. One of them even had worked for the former Evil Deputy President, and talked about him glowingly. I tried not to say anything — my momma taught me that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all — but it made it difficult for me just to sit there. I finally got up and went to the restroom. I did not return to the table until the conversation had changed.

When the awards presentation was complete, I saw people moving tables to clear space on the dance floor. The band began to tune up. Like the others, I moved toward the back of the room. The conversation continued about mundane stuff until the band began to play.

The band was pretty good, but sounded awfully loud because the acoustics in the room were quite bad. I have mixed feelings about watching a bunch of 40-50-60’ish people try to dance. Most of them weren’t that good, but at least they were trying, and seemed to be having fun. Soon enough, I began to think that this was something like a cross between an old high school dance and a horror flick.

Because I couldn’t hear any more, and also that I was seriously afraid that a female club member might ask me to dance and I would have to turn her down (and leave her wondering why or worse, thinking that I don’t like her), I just found my coat and went home.

I thought about my discomfort, and realized that I just don’t like to be around people who are drinking. Their tongues “get loose” and they say things that they ordinarily wouldn’t say in public. I heard more than one slur toward gay people. Those who were saying those things did not know that I’m gay, and did not realize what they said. If possible and without causing a scene, I intervened and corrected each loose-tongued, well-lubricated person. But sheesh, I hate to do that. I do not hear these things when they are not drinking, and most of them are very open and accepting of me. Just not when they’re drinking.

I also remain uncomfortable to be in a place where people may anticipate that I might dance. I have always disliked dancing. I an a quarantasinestrapede. (Leave a comment if you figure that one out!) I guess this is where I am different (gay, straight, or sideways) — everyone else in my family loves or loved to dance. But not me. Never. Despite all the times they tried to teach me, my quarantasinestra-ineptitude prevailed.

Oh well, I tried, once again, to endure this thing. But I won’t again. I’m just not cut out for it. Sigh.

Life is short: keep learning!