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Posts Tagged ‘Gay’
My husband George makes the most amazing, blended Margaritas. As a matter of fact, I rarely need to consult the calendar to know when summer is upon us. Like Yosemite’s grizzly bears, our Williams Sonoma blender suddenly emerges from it’s winter hibernation – crammed in the cupboard of our butler’s pantry to make it’s much anticipated seasonal appearance on the wet bar by our swimming pool. Like a trusted friend, it will remain there all summer. Loyal and unwavering, our blender sees us through Memorial day weekend, the doggiest of summer’s dog days, and even into Indian summer, which in LA lasts until Halloween. Now, I’ve had a TON of Margaritas in my life – but none can hold a candle to the magic Margarita turned out by my spouse. George is not a more-is-better Margarita type of guy. As gay as we are – we don’t ‘do’ strawberry, peach, watermelon or chocolate (heaven forbid) Margaritas. We are old school – straight blended Margarita with our without salt – if any of our friends have the audacity to request fruit in their drinks, we kindly but firmly suggest they visit their nearest El Torito.
Many of our drunk and aggresive friends have pressed George for the recipe. Like a secret elixir – he guards the recipe jealously. I have been married to the man for 14 years, and have yet to learn the components. One night, shitfaced, George became unusually vocal regarding the origin of the magic Margarita recipe. While not disclosing the recipe itself, I came to learn that my husband’s secret recipe wasn’t actually his – but was gleaned from his nanny – a mysterious woman named Sylvia. This came as somewhat of a surprise to me, as I had heard Sylvia’s name mentioned (in the hushest of hush tones) several times by my husband’s family. When I innocently inquired after Sylvia’s last name, country of origin, household duties and present whereabouts, nervous looks were exchanged and the subject was quickly changed. I concluded that Sylvia was either unceremoniously fired for some petty household pilfering, or George’s family had strangled her for the magic Margarita recipe and had been haphazardly buried in the lush Avocado orchard that abutted their San Diego home. Not only did Sylvia bequeath (I intentionally use this term, as I’m relatively certain my in-laws murdered this woman) her magic Margarita recipe – but also passed along an outstanding recipe for Guacamole that my enterprising in-laws have turned into a successful avocado empire ironically named Holy Guacamole.
(To Be Continued)
Hey guys…the good people at http://bunchfamily.ca asked me to write a love letter to my spouse in honor of Valentine’s day. I found this somewhat challenging, for in my mind love and marriage have very little to do with each other. Enjoy!
February 1, 2011
Dear George,
Below, please find some liner notes to the ‘Do You Love Me?’ number from the all-male version of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF that we’re staging in four weeks time at the Manhole in Long Beach. I’m thrilled to tell you that I have an entirely new ‘take’ on this Broadway standard when instead of setting our production of FIDDLER in early 20th century Tsarist Russia (which I think is just too damn depressing) we find Tevya (Thomas), Golda (Gerald) and their three smokin’ hot triplets Hayden, Tristan and Bruce are now modern-day WASPs asked to leave their family compound in West Palm Beach because their ‘marriage’ isn’t recognized by the fascistic government of Florida!
Imagine the comedic possibilities when in a stroke of gender-blind casting Yenta (Yale) played by Chaz Bono swings by the family compound hoping to secure a match between the youngest son, sizziling hot bodybuilder Hayden, and Palm Beach’s most well-respected but long-in-the-tooth plastic surgeon, Paul St. Maurice! LOL! In any case, I’ve taken the liberty of using our relationship as the inspiration for the long suffering Tevya (Thomas) and Golda (Gerald) for the ‘Do You Love Me?’ number, because after 16 years of marriage, 5 different homes, a hopelessly spoiled child, and COUNTLESS therapists, counselors and advisers I can honestly say that the love I have for you is like the mold growing in our shower – it’s ugly, it’s smelly, but no matter how much Tilex I use, that shit refuses to go away!
Faithfully, (What a laugh!)
Tod
Your quasi-legal, recognized only-in-California, sort-of husband.
PS…I’ve decided to call the play DIDDLER WITH A ROOFIE – What do you think?
(Thomas)
“Gerald I have decided to give Clay Aiken permission to become engaged to our son Hayden”
(Gerald)
“What??? American Idol was a fluke – even ELLEN won’ t have him on the show for Christ’s sake! He’s washed up!
(Thomas)
“He’s a good man, Gerald.
I like him. And what’s more important, he’ll sing for free at our brunches.
So what can we do?
(now singing)
Do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I what?
(Thomas)
Do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I still love you?
With our boys getting offers
From every chicken hawk in town,
take a Xanax, have a shot
Go inside, go lie down!
Maybe it’s your alcoholism.
(Thomas)
“Gerald I’m asking you a question…”
Do you still love me?
(Gerald)
You’re a tool.
(Thomas)
“I know…”
But do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I still love you?
For sixteen years Illegal aliens have cooked
our meals, cleaned our house, serviced our wheels,
A surrogate was even paid to have our sons
With what we’ve spent, I’ve got the runs!
(Thomas)
Gerald, The first time I met you
Was on gay pride day
I was scared
(Gerald)
You were drunk.
(Thomas)
I wish I could remember.
(Gerald)
In those days you were a hunk
(Thomas)
All those boyfriends who dove for cover
Setting themselves ablaze rather than be my lover
Why would you still love me?
(Gerald)
I’m your partner
(Thomas)
“I know…”
But do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I still love him?
After sixteen years, I have a house,
a California mandated live-in spouse,
Facebook says it’s complicated
If that’s not love, then I’m constipated.
(Thomas)
Then you would still ‘friend’ me?
(Gerald)
I suppose I would.
(Thomas)
And I suppose I’d ‘friend’ you too
(Both)
It change a thing
Blow by blow
After sixteen years
It’s nice to know
(Continued from ALLEY CAT DAD)
After our ‘vacation’ in Florida and as our airplane landed in smoggy Burbank, I channelled my inner MOMMIE DEAREST. After all, since TIGER MOM had the balls to exclaim to TIME magazine that expecting less than perfection from one’s children was for pussies, I felt it was high time for for my eight-year-old son Ethan to clean his room, cook his own meals, do the family laundry and change the oil in my politically-correct Toyota Prius, in addition he would be required to maintain a 4.0 grade point average and speak all seven dialects of Chinese perfectly.
In hindsight, this may have been a little ambitious, for like all the privileged, lily-white children of elitist Los Angeles, my clueless son Ethan is unable to perform the simplest tasks such as making a bowl of cereal or dressing himself in any kind of coherent manner. This is due in large part to my husband George, who is such a hovering, cloying presence, that my son Ethan is now practically helpless. I’m convinced that were Ethan to be left in our home unattended for any length of time, our scarily maladroit son would resemble one of those manacled skeletons you see on THE PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN ride at Disneyland for he lacks the basic skills a human requires to feed, clothe, or nourish himself.
For example, were you to be the proverbial fly-on-the-wall at our ostentatious house, you would be horrified at the endless rounds of negotiation, threats, and emotional fisticuffs that I must resort to each morning to get my son ready for carpool. Pressed for time and at the end my rope, I’m convinced that my son views me not so much as a parent, but rather an innocuous manservant or valet who’s nagging and badgering is easily ignored. I am so frustrated that I am forced to shriek about living in the time of Charles Dickens, where boys his age toiled away in a dangerous workhouses, nearly starving to death, unable to enjoy the luxuries he takes for granted like pricey private schools, nanny-supervised play dates, laser tag birthday parties, and endless trips to hellacious Pinkberry.
My son Ethan remains silent but gives me a look that seems to convey curiosity, pity and condescension all at the same time.
“Well,” I ask, “do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“Did you have your morning coffee?” my son asks out-of-the-blue.
“Of course I had my coffee,” I answer perplexed, “what’s that got to with anything?”
“Because coffee makes you hostile and argumentative, and when you act like that, it makes me not want to communicate with you.”
I react as if slapped, for I realize with dawning horror that my sweet, innocent son has been carefully forged into a carbon copy of the most frightening, manipulative and loathsome force in the universe; my husband George, AKA ‘The Feeling Monster.‘
(To be continued)
Yesterday, en route from a ‘family vacation’ in Florida – I use the term ‘Family Vacation’ in the loosest sense of the word, for whenever one travels with one’s children on an airplane, no aspect of it can be truly considered a ‘vacation,’ I had the good sense to pilfer a copy of Time magazine from the old lady dozing next to me. Maybe you saw the cover, it was all about TIGER MOMS. The magazine’s cover intrigued me as I had never heard the term TIGER MOM before, and anytime I see a photo of children cowering before their parent while trapped in a corner I’m hooked.
From what little I could tell from the article, this frighteningly ambitious Chinese/American mom decided that merely raising her children with the usual mixture of boredom, frustration, and exasperation just wouldn’t ‘do’ for her kids, so she took it upon herself to infuse a little old school, boot-camp style violin and academics ‘training’ into the mix. To her way of thinking, why would one want to have an ‘ordinary’ kid, when with the right mixture of bullying, haranguing, and nagging you can turn your child into a superstar? Sure, your kids will probably have a nervous breakdown by the time they’re 12, but who gives a fuck – just imagine the money you’ll save on your champagne brunches when little Sarah or Jayden is forced to play their violin or harp for hours on end to the delight of your enthralled guests?
Having digested the entire TIGER MOM article, I took a long moment to honestly appraise my eight-year-old son Ethan who while seated next to me, viewed a wildly inappropriate episode of FAMILY GUY while mindlessly carbo-loading an entire bag of Doritos into his greedy mouth. Believe me, It wasn’t pretty. His gaze remained fixed and glassy, locked on the tiny screen in front of him, as each chemical and preservative-infused chip went from bag to mouth, raining fresh Dorito crumbs on his shirt and lap.
It suddenly occurred to me that TIGER MOM wouldn’t have put up with that crap. Bitch would have probably put the proverbial gun to her kid’s head by running up some quantum mechanics flash cards, and just like that kooky ‘Russian Roulette’ scene from THE DEER HUNTER, screeched at her kids to solve that shit by the end of the flight or risk ‘dying’ in hail of failure and shame bullets.
(To be Continued)
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