“SURPRISE!” the gang
of revelers shouted. My mother and grandmother practically barreled me over
with tackle-like defensive hugs, forgetting that I’m a slight man without any
athletic ability. I’d barely made it through the front door of my childhood
home, to have my weekly Sunday night early-bird special dinner with my mom and
grandma, when I was accosted by a group of casually dressed well-wishers, some
of whom were already three sheets to the wind.
My watch read 4:30p.m.
Clearly, for some of the guests—for as long as I’d ever known them—it was
always cocktail hour somewhere in the world.
“Um, hi everyone.
What are y’all doing here?“ I continued to fend off hugs. I’d never been a
hugger, even as a child. “I’m still thirty-six you know. Nothing’s changed
since we celebrated my birthday together four months ago.”
The entire group
laughed me off, as though I was the drunken elephant in the room. I liked a
good party. And, my mother and grandmother never needed an excuse to throw an
event—after all, my mother had me at twenty, raised me as a single mother
holding down three jobs to make ends meet, while my grandma helped to raise me.
I decided to get my freak on with them. If they wanted to party, who was I to
stop them?
The dining room table
was brimming with food. Loud music blared from my grandma’s ancient record
player she’d refused to throw away. My mom’s bar on wheels, nearly tipping over
from the grabby hands trying to pull bottles off of it to refresh half-empty
drinks, was making its rounds. The middle-aged to nearing geriatric crowd of my
family members, and some very cute men who looked to be near my age, were even
wearing party hats. Everything seemed to be in order, until my gaze stopped
upon the banner hanging above the living room fireplace mantle.
‘I’M COMING OUT,’ it
screamed in neon bright colours of the rainbow. Frozen in horror, like a
Beverly Hills ageing doyenne who’d overdosed on Botox, I couldn’t escape. I
quickly scanned the room searching out my grandmother and mother.
“Mom? Grandma?” I
called out to no answer. The music was overbearing. “Ma? I need to talk to
you.”
I maneuvered my way
through the crowd, finally spotting my matriarchs near the roving bar.
“Yoo hoo honey, over
here!” my grandma chimed, waving me over.
“So, how do you like
the party?” my mother asked.
“It’s nice. I even
like the cute gay boys as party favors, but I’m a bit confused. Why are you
throwing me a coming out party when I came out twenty years ago to you both
when I was still in high school?” s
“Who the hell said
that this was your coming out party?” my grandma retorted, waving her
martini-glass filled hand around.
“Grandma, are you
telling me you’re loving the ladies these days?”
“Don’t be such an
ass,” In one giant swig, she downed the four ounces of her Grey Goose medicine.
“Mom?”
“Yes, you got me. I
only buy cereal to munch on the box,” she shouted. The loud buzz of the room
stopped cold. Everyone was staring at us thanks to my mother’s genetic
predilection for screaming rather than whispering.
“So, then who’s gay?”
“No one, but you,” my mother retorted. “Coming out doesn’t have to mean just announcing to the world that you’re gay.”
“No one, but you,” my mother retorted. “Coming out doesn’t have to mean just announcing to the world that you’re gay.”
“Okay, what then?”
“We, your mother and
I, are coming out publicly to say that it’s about damn time you hitched your
ride to a handsome fella, and give us babies,” my grandmother announced. “We
have marriage equality now thanks to the Supreme Court.”
“Excuse me?” I
stammered.
“You’re a thirty-six
year old healthy, handsome, brilliant plastic surgeon, but you’re still single,” my mother advised as though she
was telling me something I didn’t know. “We’ve watched men swim in and out of
your life for the last twenty years, leaving us less and less hopeful as each
failed relationship enjoyed a burial in the proverbial sea full of fish you’ve
dated. We want you married already, and called daddy before the year is out.”
“What your mother means is that we want your kid calling you daddy, not your spouse.” My grandmother was not shy. “Honey, what you do in the privacy of the bedroom is non of our concern.”
“What your mother means is that we want your kid calling you daddy, not your spouse.” My grandmother was not shy. “Honey, what you do in the privacy of the bedroom is non of our concern.”
My relatives nodded
their heads in agreement, while the gaggle of gays lined up eagerly to get down
on their collective bended knees to propose, upon hearing that I was single and
ready to mingle according to my motherly pimps. And, it didn’t hurt that I was flush
with cash. Enhancing boobs paid the bills.
“You’re both so cute,
but you’re extremely deluded.” I glared at them, forcing my veneers to give
them the most genuine fake smile I could muster. My relatives and the queue of
wannabe suitors looked at me expectantly. I laughed uncomfortably. “I’m so
happy that I can legally get married, but I’m not ready to settle down. Can we
just talk about this privately?” I tried to usher them into the kitchen, but
those two small immovable Moai had dug their heels in so deep into the shag
carpeting, they weren’t going anywhere.
“Whatever you have to
say, you can say in front of your family and potential future husband!” my
mother stated.
I hung my head, my
cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
“This party is as
much a coming out for us as it is for you—you get to play debutante while we
fix you up with our future son and grandson-in-law. It’s a win-win for all of
us,” my grandma added. “You owe us grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Now
get flirting!”
“Shall we start the
dating show portion of the party?” my mother asked, pointing to the eager
puppy-like participants waiting to self-promote their attributes to me.
“What makes you think
any of them will make suitable partners?” I asked.
“Since you can’t seem
to find Mr. Right on your own, we found several options for you through GayChristianMingle.com,”
my grandma added. “They all believe in God, country, marriage, and their
mothers. What more do you want?”
“But, we’re Jewish,”
I interrupted.
“What, they can’t
convert? Jesus was a Jew—they know that,” my grandma retorted. The chorus of pretty
boys nodded their heads eagerly.
“Since you’ve got
everything figured out, why don’t you pick the groom for me? Hell, pick out the
egg donor, or kid that we’re going to adopt. My vote doesn’t count?”
“No, it doesn’t. The
vote was cast for you by the five learned Supremes who know what’s best for you
and us. We’ve waited over twenty years to give you away in holy matrimony. We’ve
had it up to here with you Grinderella. No more Mr. Right Nows,” my grandma ordered.
“Thanks to the highest court of this land we’ve earned the right to see you get
married, and hear the pitter patter of little chubby feet before we’re dead
because you’ve got the right to get married. So, get a move on it!”
© 2015. Naomi
Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.
No comments:
Post a comment