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(Continued from WILD RICE PT. 2)
To people who do not know us well, George and I appear to be the happiest of happily married couples. To the uninitiated, we have all the shiny trappings one expects of any ‘A’ personality gay couple. We maintain a beautiful, (over-decorated) home, possess a wonderful (frightening) child, and are active (manipulative and controlling) in community affairs. In addition to our fraudulent pillars-of-society standing, our neighbors smile and wave at us for the insane, OCD manner we keep our home. George and I may be profoundly obnoxious and complete frauds, but none of our neighbors seem to mind so long as their property values keep climbing due to the noveau-riche curb appeal of our ghastly home. The outward appearance of our house serves as an all-to-real metaphor for our married-with-children existence as a whole. Our home’s glittering, neo-Georgian exterior masks an interior that is complex, meandering, and at times utterly confounding.
As George and the dreaded terrorist Ethan ‘bin Laden’ Abrams haggled over the ‘deal points’ regarding the consumption of dessert, I sat in my dining room chair, stone-cold sober, my mouth agape, my eyes wide. bin Laden had shrewdly convinced George that there never was, nor had there ever been a clear definition of ‘finished.’ As far as the dreaded bin Laden was concerned, his sullen appearance at our table and his listless mashing of the plate’s contents entitled him to dessert. George, whose powers of child negotiation can swing wildly from immensely insightful to utterly dismal insisted that bin Laden consume all the rice on his plate in order to ‘qualify’ for dessert. Ethan bin Laden eyed the mountain of rice on his plate dubiously. He took a moment, thought, and countered by mockingly asking George to hand count the exact number of rice grains he must consume in order to again ‘qualify’ for dessert. George resembled a defeated Henry Kissinger as he began to physically count each grain of rice one-by-one. Ethan bin Laden crossed his arms and shot me victorious look. He had won and was now going to rub my nose in it.
My rage boiled over. All at once, I bolted from my chair and rudely grabbed Ethan bin Laden’s plate tossing it carelessly into the kitchen sink where it shattered dramatically. Chicken, rice, and wilted broccoli flew everywhere as a startled Ethan bin Laden and George Kissinger gaped at me.
“Negotiations are at an end, there will be no dessert tonight – nor any other night!” I hissed.
In the aftermath of my ‘shock and awe’ action, I savored the sudden look of fear in Ethan bin Laden’s eyes, but was somewhat dismayed when my defeated spouse, George Kissinger, reminded me that while my aggressive actions might have won us this dessert battle, we were probably going to lose the dessert war. Suddenly, my own victory seemed very small indeed.
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