Dont Mince Words

I wouldn’t consider myself a fag hag. I love and respect anyone with good fashion sense and a keen ear for music which includes ABBA and the Scissor Sisters. As you can you imagine, with my open mind and open mouth, the gays flock to me. A friend coined the term “fruit fly.” I’ll own that one.

I was killin’ the other day at the office. I had my main gay laughing out loud and grabbing his belly when I came up with the reality show idea, “To Catch a Cougar Lover.” Each week would feature a different scenario starring me. For instance, I’d lure the pizza delivery guy into my bedroom. Afterwards, my main gay would catch the guy coming out the door.

“You realize she’s 41,” he’d say.

“Ah….. cool,” Pizza boy would reply with cameras in his face.

With his clipboard firmly in his hand, my main gay would say, “According to the transcript, she said she was 29. How does this make you feel?”

“Shut up dood, I’m enjoying my brownies and sweet tea,” he’d reply.

We laughed and laughed and then, when he caught his breath, he popped the question. “I know you are looking for an apartment. I want to buy a condo. Want to go in on one together?”

I’ve become Grace. It’s flattering that a man that has known me four months sees the bliss I could bring to a dysfunctional domestic partnership. Of course, it enraged me that he gets it and the straight ones don’t. I told him we couldn’t handle living with each other. We’d never get laid with all the cats we’d end up having. It just wouldn’t be good.

But the office hi-jinx continues. He calls me Miss Kitty while others yell “hide the children” when I walk down the hall.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in more than three years. Yes, I’m a Hater. Women who have joined my no-mother cult have experienced similar exhilaration and relief after radio silence. However, we all have our sound bites to dodge the mainstream how’s-your-family questions.

Several days ago, I connected with a match.com guy who seemed delightful; tall, geeky, and from New York. During our first date, I decided I really, really liked him when he told me his dad was dead and he no longer talked to his mother.

I squealed with delight. I didn’t have to give my blanket “I don’t get home much” response. Instead, I smiled and said. “My dad is dead too and I haven’t spoken to my mother in three years.”

“I’m at seven years. I’m an only child, so I call/hang up every once in a while to see if she answers the phone to know she’s dead or not,” he said.

“Oh, I just call my brother and ask ‘Is mom dead yet?'” I said. (My brother doesn’t have the Krazy Barbara Kryptonite like I do.)

We laughed and decided we’d have to meet again soon. And I imagine, if things go well, we’ll be crank calling our mothers. That’s when I’ll know we’re serious.

I’ve been in Los Angeles four years. It’s hard to believe my stay has exceeded my time in New York. My LA Story isn’t filled without a few ironies:

Tan lines: For the past two years, I’ve had a vitamin d deficiency.
Body image: I’ve had fewer dates since I’ve lost 120 pounds.

Last night, I was at a special event in the New York section of the Paramount lot. While I was eating sushi on Delancey, my girlfriend asked me if I missed New York. For the first time, without hesitating, I was able to say, “No. I miss my friends, but I have friends all over the U.S. I miss.”

Besides, LA is filled with just as many soulless assholes as New York. Today my heart swings.