Let's Pretend We're Married

A year ago when I moved to Denver, after unpacking all my stuff into Wendy's house, I drove over the mountains to see Mom and Dad. On a typical summer visit, my mom has everything prepared, the cheese sliced in perfect rectangles, an even distribution of Triscuits and Wheat Thins, cantaloupe from the farmer's market sliced into crescent moons. But this day, she was fretful and fumbled around in the kitchen. She sort of slapped things down on the dining room table where we sat.

While Dad stared at the carpet, Mom asked me why I wasn't getting an apartment of my own. I explained that Wendy and I simply wanted to live together, it made sense financially, emotionally... we were tired of living alone. Mom darted her eyes from my dad to the cheese and crackers to my forehead to my wrist.

I'd recently had my hair cut in a Jamie Lee Curtis pixie, and only after the locks lay in piles on the floor around me did I remember: I don't have a body like Jaime Lee Curtis in "True Lies." I'm short with a swimmer's build and an absence of knockers. Further complicating the situation was the woven rainbow friendship bracelet Leslie Gilroy had given me at my going away party my last night in South Carolina.

"Wait," I said. "Do you think we're gay?" Mom glanced again at my dad, at the table, at my wrist. "Well," she said. "Are you?"

I chuckled. I grinned. Had they forgotten my recently published book about half the men I'd loved before? "Ummm... we still like guys. We just don't wanna live with them."

Finally, my dad looked up from the floor and let out an exaggerated "whew!"

Later, after recounting this to Patrick, he suggested I tell my parents that Wendy and I were getting married, just for the tax benefits. I gave it serious consideration, but opted not to. My parents barely get my sense of humor as it is.