Oh, my stars, Gentle Reader. I’m staying with my mother for a few days. After she got done telephoning her friends (who are apparently all watching their grandchildren, and giving Maman ideas*) we started watching this film wherein all lesbians are stalkers/murderers, which I have on very good authority is utter tosh.
A while ago, one of my best friends -whose wife used to identify as lesbian, I should note- decided that gay people were utter anathema, and that therefore, the decade he’d spent as my substitute brother was a sin weighing on his soul. Now, essentially we’d grown up together – at least, the bit where young men try to figure out what being a young man means – and the other morning, he, and his family were rather on my mind.
You see, his grandmother, Gram, was very kind to me when I was a young awkward mess†, and she’s in her nineties, and I want to attend her eventual funeral. As J. and I have quarrelled over whether I have the right to exist, and I’m more than a little catty, I clearly want to bring an attractive, same-sex, date. I no longer have friends who will be my pretend dates at functions. This makes me sad.
Alors. I wanted to talk about how J. and I decided to travel to Kentucky, years ago, to surprise his relatives on the chicken farm for Thanksgiving, but the stream-of-conciousness that is this post has left me too distressed.
*K and Ex-husband and I decided that if some combination of us have children, a boy will be called Heathcliff; a girl, Ophelia. YAY LITERATURE!
†I am still a mess, though less awkward, and less young.