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I pulled out my outdoor table chair at the pizza restaurant the other night and paused when I saw a neighbouring diner with a dog at his feet.

“Hello puppy, hello there!”

I ruffled a beautiful dog’s soft brown mane as I sat down at the table. I laughed as she nuzzled into my hands and stared up at me with her big brown eyes. I was busy replicating her look at the owner.

The giveaway here is the word ‘dog’. If I were a dog person I would have been able to articulate what breed she was and her actual colour. She would be a crossbred something or other or a pure breed. A chocolate mocha coat or a cappuccino brown.

I had a dog when I was 12. His name was Mister Meaner, and he lived up to his name regularly.

After a few boring months with us and a moment where we thought he had rabies, he was sent to my grandparents to work on the farm to save him from our tomfoolery.

I’m not a dog person at all. I don’t mind them, but I don’t love them. I am, however, a man person.

“So, what’s its name?” I quizzed the handsome owner.

“Noodle,” he smiled.

“Is it a ‘she’?” I rubbed her head as he affirmed a very obvious answer.

I looked at Noodle.

“Do you shake hands, Miss?”

I clicked my fingers and held my hand out. She put her paw up.

I actually felt warm about this very cute puppy. I love it when they shake hands, er, paws.

Is it wrong that I fake-love an animal just to chat to her owner? I checked the gay guide and it’s perfectly acceptable. In fact, it’s recommended.

As he sat down, my dining partner reminded me that I disliked dogs. I was giddily wiping drool off my hands and I don’t think it was Noodle’s drool either.

Noodle and her owner left midway through my dinner. I ignored her on the way out, but said “Good night” to him. I’m not planning on getting a dog so I can meet men, but perhaps I need to stalk the restaurant again.

As we celebrate and wave at the cavalcade on Oxford/Flinders this weekend, I believe most of us will have a moment where we think of the people 40 years ago who started the movement for social acceptance.

Last week I saw the play The Temperamentals and it was an eye-opener for the fact that nearly 10 years before the Stonewall riots in New York City, there was a group of unknown men, fighting same-sex inequality.

At the same time, a gay newsletter called One Inc, not dissimilar to the one you’re reading now, was fighting the US Postal Service to have its material sent through the federal post. We can pick up the Star Observer at our local café or pub and read it freely online — such luxury in comparison. Kudos to both papers for providing a voice.

Back 1000 years or so and it was socially acceptable, in a quite a few cultures, stretching from ancient Greece to not too long ago Melanesia, to have a male lover. Even if they proclaimed that it was for population control … ahem.

So the freedom in attending a happy festival is a joy and nowadays a right instead of a privilege. I doubt Cleopatra celebrated her nation’s gayness by jumping on a barge to float down the Nile with her oiled men, and I question Florentine courts filled with robed heaving men having an art after-party. Or do I?

Anyway, I’ve got my best mate George and his boyfriend Kevin coming up for Mardi Gras. It’s George’s first festival and given Madam Minogue is rolling into town, I’m already imagining the questions.

“What do we wear?” “Glitter.”

“What will we drink?” “Glitter’

“Where will we stand?” “On a mound of glitter.”

‘What will we see?” “Glitter.” And so on.

I’m sure Sydney can be seen from space on Saturday night. The spectacle, the sequins and the skin. What has always been on show in someone’s heart since antiquity now is on show for the world to see.

I wish you all a very happy Mardi Gras.

I woke with a start. The soft light was sneaking through the curtains and illuminating my room. The white chair facing the glass-topped table with hotel card and standard vinyl binder sat glowing in the light.

I opened my curtains to the little courtyard of Parisian stones and geraniums.

I was dreaming of the boys. They were laughing and telling me they had gone for a swim and that they were staying in room 40. They told me they loved me and, as they kissed my cheek, they slipped through my fingers and I was awake.

Reality, in Paris, nearly three weeks into my six-week trip and thousands of miles, light years even, from the mini men who danced in my mind that night, as usual.

I texted Dawn and told her my dream. They were on their own holiday on the Gold Coast. Their room as displayed on the door is 04. It was a nice coincidence and one I searched for them in.

I wiped my eyes and got ready to start my day trip to Chartres.

Nearly two years later, I dug out my travel journal and went to bed to read it for the first time since I returned from Europe in 2010. I opened the first page and some UAE dirham fell onto my chest.

Inside was a note on an A4 piece of paper Dawn had texted me the image of when I was overseas, which I now have folded in my book. A note from the boys, written, I think, by Beau.

“Dad, every time I want to think of you, I look at the map on the wall,” it read.

Then just last night, Dawn told me, Beau was overtired and restless and visited her bedroom with the map we drew before my trip.

“Mum, Dad went to Europe and this is where he went.”

Such a big event in their little minds.

It has inspired two little men who can’t wait to finish school so they can visit the places in their dreams, like giant bowls of neverending spaghetti, the Mona Lisa, canal cities and grottos of blue.

I think I have confused plants in my garden. My lemon tree is meant to be providing gleaming, golden fruits. What’s hanging there are green globes with little pointy lime bottoms adorning my tree like earrings.

I believe my tree is suffering a hermaphroditic citrus condition. I wonder if I call an arborist would they choke laughing at me?

Anyway, last week I went to an information night to investigate joining the volunteer ranks of telephone counselling. I admit I was surprised by the level of interest. I was expecting a handful of people and there were nearly 35 in the room.

So we were group discussing case studies and one caught me off-guard. It was a transgender study. No one was expected to psychoanalyse or provide clinical treatment, but listen, empathise and consider options and referrals.

I took myself on a little journey (surprising, I know) and got caught up on the minor emotion the case study was feeling instead of the major.

On reflection, I don’t know enough about transgender issues. I perhaps need to do some research and speak to some people I know. I’m curious by nature, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find people who want to educate me or tell me their story.

How does all this relate to my citrus dilemma? Well, as much as I want her to be a lemon, she’s actually growing into a lime.

And as much as I have set expectations about how she should grow and marinate my chicken, I will need to adjust my feelings and consider her flavouring my gin and tonics instead. I feel like Cher for some reason now.

Whether I’m chosen or not, the information night was another successful reminder that as much as we know, we still need to learn.

Last weekend I found a car space across the road from the cinema. Such simple joys, I know.

I walked up the stairs to the ‘4pm it’s okay not to have a date session’ to be met with a wall of gay men.

Was it Mardi Gras Film Festival? Didn’t think so. Was it a gay flick with a hairy handsome guy? You bet.

I wove my way to the counter, bought a ticket and lined up behind every age category of men, women and preference. It was a movie for all, it seemed.

Some guys behind me were talking about Grindr and Gaydar and I smiled to myself as I strained to hear what they got up to. I pushed my glasses up onto my nose and curled up on my seat as the room darkened.

Like I’m sure everyone was doing, I sat on the velour seat finding pieces of me in the film. I could see the hesitation when Glen walked off, I could feel the awkwardness when Russell overheard him talking to his mate about a sexual encounter. I could relate to the tears of saying goodbye to someone you’ve only just met.

Post-movie, I’ve asked a few people who saw it to comment.

“Yeah, it was good,” was one comment. Another was concerned with stereotypical characters unable to commit and love.

Now, I know I can take some things on a journey *cough*, but I was hoping for more than that as a response.

I even loved the way we see Glen walking on the path below Russell’s apartment. First time, he doesn’t look back, second time, he hesitates and third time he turns around and looks up.

Anyway, I’d like to know what you think. If you’ve seen it or if you have an experience that related to the just-met-but-leaving scenario I’d love to hear your story. Please share it online here.

By the way, I’ve also created a Facebook page for this column, I hope to fill in some of the mini men stories that don’t make it to the words for the week. I’m hoping to hear your stories too. Stop by if you want to ‘like’ me.

The boys scooted ahead as we walked down to the park after dinner the other night. It was a ritual we’d formed for the week we holidayed at my house.

“Watch both ways, then cross,” I yelled out to them both as they stopped in the middle of the road to look.

The little park was filled with kids, staying with their grandpas and yiayias. I sat on the bench in the early evening breeze watching the men run red-faced and sweaty around the ground with kids twice their age.

On the swings a little while later, I was propelling Chickles into the stratosphere and Beau was chatting happily to the kid next to him. They were talking about girlfriends and the other kid Yianni, at ripe old age of four, had two of them on the go.

“My dad has boyfriends,” Beau grinned at his new friend as they swung into the sky.”He even kisses them.”

Suddenly the world was stuck in that moment. I gasped as the grandma pushing the other kid stared at me quizzically. Chicky’s swing came whooshing past my face while I recovered with a feeble cover-up.

As our holiday continued, so did the so-called boyfriends. David Jane jumped into the passenger seat for a trip with the men to get gelato. Spoonfuls later, we were whizzing through his iPad looking at his photos of his alter ego Bo Gan.

The boys reported quietly when he left, “Dad, he has sparkly toenails”.

Then George for breakfast, Anthony for coffee and so on.

Friends jump into this caravan of my revolving family. All of them enter the car with a kiss and a hello.

Walking home from an empty park later two nights later, Beau was a little quiet.

“What’s up, handsome?”

“I just hope when I grow up I will see Yianni again.”

They’d promised to catch up, but Yianni didn’t come back. Beau was touched by their first meeting.

“You may, sweetheart, you just never know what will happen.” I rubbed his head as he scooted down the road.

“You just never know,” I repeated to myself as I lagged behind them.

Sue and I had a sneaky day trip down the south coast away from work recently — she’s a dreadful influence on me.

We ate breakfast in Brighton Le Sands, watched the planes landing and taking off and caught up on the kids, boyfriends (hers, I’m still looking) and work.

We walked across the road to get back in the car. I thought about our old work in Melbourne and what she was working on at the moment.

“You know, you should open up some gay retirement villages.” I stuck the key into the door and opened it for her.

“Just not with saunas or hot tubs,” we cackled. “And only hot orderlies.”

“Can you imagine, seriously. There are so many people who would prefer to be looked after in a gay-friendly village.”

I started picturing Zimmer frames and disco balls in the community room.

We drove over the escarpment and through valleys of green bordered by frothy foamy beaches.

I wondered what will come of our elderly, what will become of me, when I get to that age.  Will an adult Chicky want to make me Vegemite soldiers?  Will Beau creep home at some ungodly hour, forgetting he left me in the bath?

Do I want a stern straight woman or man who doesn’t understand me or my people or do I want José from True Blood as my chamber man? Si señor!

Sure, I’m being stereotypical about the whole chasing José around the hospital-cornered beds, but I guess it’s something that will start to influence the next wave for businesses to invest in. There is a market for it.

I have some older friends who I think will live out the remainder of their days in solitude, visited by stray cats, young visitors who forget to keep in touch and long walks around Betty Bay.

I want a Disney experience when I hit the pastures. I want spinning teacups, handsome and friendly faces to lower me into a bath and when I reach to switch the light out, I want to be able to lean over and give my partner a peck on the lips and sleep curled up right next to him.

Well, it only took him seven-and-a-half years, but it has finally arrived. My eldest son has a boy crush. At least I think it’s a crush. Chick is following suit, but this is really Beau’s story.

Timomatic is a newcomer to MTV and in as much time as it takes him to flip onto his back and spin, he has captured my mini man’s interest.

I don’t mind, he’s a sexy guy, dances well and seems to be a happy chappy, smiling as he gyrates.

I’m grateful. It could have been Beyoncé in her one-piece spandex and black sneakers squealing about love on top … you get where I’m going? Yep, I can still see me pulling down my singlet top to pout out an Olivia Newton-John single one day, it’s not a cool image.

Back to boy crushes. Beau put the dancing on pause and disappeared into his room, only to return dressed in jeans and sneakers and a hat on sideways grinning awkwardly, asking me for help to find his checked shirt. He was blushing.

“Of course sweetheart, let’s look.” I guided his shoulders into the room with my hands. I opened the wardrobe door.

“Here, this is similar to Timomatic’s, that should look cool.” I smiled with an air of irrelevance so he didn’t think I was making a big deal about it. You know, parent play-acting. I really am up for an AFI this year.

Tim and the boys went dancing that afternoon, all dressed the same, all throwing themselves about smiling happily. As long as we parents didn’t sedately spectate, the boys were fine. The minute Dawn and I looked over and commented on how cute they were, they dived onto the couch and blushed.

Rubber bands on your wrists with yellow nail polish, BoyToy belts and white heels, AHA! big hair caked in hairspray blow-dried sky high, Boy George eyeliner — all of this eventually fades or hopefully gets thrown into the back of the cupboard.

It’s the basics that keep coming back when we grow, we emulate the closest to us, those that interest us.

I’m still grateful that Beau leaves out my Clinique Happy after he has used it so I know he still wants to be just like me.

I figure if you’ve been following these past three years, you’ll have a couple of good insights into me — so I thought I’d add to the knowledge and wrap up the year with a list of my 10 most influential forces for 2011 à la the (Sydney) magazine.

Ten: After 25 years I’m still singing Kylie tunes. So uncool was she at the beginning I used to play my Enjoy Yourself tape under the bed on the lowest volume.

Nine: The world of mascarpone. If I could use it as a face cream I would.

Eight: Discovering that catching a bus is not exercise. I discovered the post-35 spread since moving to the Meyer Mansion.

Seven: Markus Zusak and David Nicholls wrote their ways into my mind and when I finished crying, left me staring at the wall in awe.

Six: Bulk buying. Since I believe I am a long lost descendant of Rome, I look at lemon trees and see curd, I look at the ground and see tomatoes,I look at wholesalers and buy 3 kg bags of nuts. Why? I still have no idea.

Five: Nigella. I know. She makes me smile. Four: The three Mrs Meyers. Like any son, we are attached to our mothers. I am also very attached to my Nana. I have flowers in my garden just to follow her. The boys idolise their mother Dawn too, so she influences me.

Three: The fellowship. Sue, George and Rosanna. The stitch-work quilt your nana once made, in human form.

Two: Him. He is a few people mixed into one sentiment. You know who you are. And I love you.

One: The mini men. Two people couldn’t push and pull me more. I feel raw with them and they make me feel every second of sunshine and moonlight. When I have nothing left to give, they help me find more.

Quentin Bryce’s blonde hair gently falls back into sprayed place as it billows in the breeze. She smiles for the media after swearing in Gillard’s third ministry.

My hair stuck to my forehead after a sweaty lunchtime bout of boxing. I looked like a Beatle. It was a nondescript day for me. Neither here, neither there.

My eldest son, seven years lod, sat in his classroom listening to his teacher, knowing he would go home to his mother, to food, to safety, to love.
Another small child of the same age, plus nearly 50 others were rescued from chains in a darkened basement in a Pakistani madrassa, left without food, and beaten. Beaten for ‘being out of control’, rehabilitation for drug addiction that may or may not be true.

Children and teenagers sent by parents who can ill afford education, but believe their children are receiving religious studies. Learning not of higher prophecies, rather the lowest of acts. Acts compounded by propaganda. A garden of hate.

Propaganda through these unregistered ‘schools’ is enough for me to stare into the brown eyes on the screen and wish that those boys grow up without hatred and wishes of extremist proportions. They belong in the same world as my boys.Gillard’s new ministry had the privilege of education and freedom, growing into the people they are today. Policy issues aside, we are a safe country.

Halfway across the world, I wonder what goes through people’s minds sending their children away, locking them up, mistreating them and then expecting them to be upstanding citizens. Ignorance is still a crime.

It just doesn’t make sense, the inequity in life disturbs me. How do children grow in this environment? They are our next leaders. Noble or demonic, they are next in line. The darkness that grows in extremist minds doesn’t blossom into anything. Instead it bleeds onto the ground when it is expelled.