If the Gay Glove Fits...

I have not spoken with my father since his horror at learning that the gays were coming to dinner for turkey and cranberry sauce and practically had a stroke over the phone. His birthday is this week and under normal circumstances, I certainly would call him, wish him well, and all that polite crap. But with the big gay pink elephant in the room, I just can't bring myself to do that. Maybe that's small of me and when I am standing at the Pearly Gates before God and his jury, I will be asked as to why I made that decision in 2012. I suppose I could tell him that all the end of the world talk clouded my judgement and I was just so distraught that I was not my normal rational self. As a teenager Y2K had me spooked so he should know I can become easily distracted. 

Anyway, this realization that my father has still been pining for Muhammed Ali as a son, as opposed to I don't know - Carson Kressley from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (and really I don't ooze gay when I am simply standing for God's sake - although that SHOULD be ok too!) has really been a shock to the system. I thought we were past this and it was accepted, as it was old news. Old as in everyone knows and accepts the fact that O.J. DID in FACT kill Nicole! Right? No? Well if the answer to that is no, at least everyone would accept he had something to do with it and so my father, in regards to me, should have at least known that I was gay by association. There has always been evidence and there were never any gloves that didn't fit in my case. The gay glove has always fit, nice and snug folks - always. If the gay glove fits, you CANNOT acquit! I am guilty of having - "the gay" - an incurable condition,  but one that people can live with and lead normal, happy, and healthy, lives. Yes, I am guilty. 

As an adult, I am obviously not the same person as I was as a teenager. First, while I have been truly hurt by my father's unwillingness to welcome my future husband into his home as if he were - I don't know - going to be family, I did not fall apart like a bad sweater. Second, I am no longer looking for his acceptance. At 15 when I told him I thought I was gay and he said, "if I wanted another daughter I would have named you Jennifer," I was looking for his acceptance. Always astute, I knew then I wasn't going to receive it. When those sorts of things are said to you as a teenager, you learn to develop thicker skin, have a sense of humor, and make a bitch ass cocktail as an adult (because sometimes thick skin and humor just aren't enough!). I have learned to accept myself and I now have a very full life, completely removed from him and his opinions and judgments. Third, I am happy and in love with "The Boy." I feel very, can't believe I am going to say this, "blessed" if you will. As a non religious person, and someone who wouldn't consider themselves a Christian or saved, the word "blessed" bothers and annoys me like the words moist and quiche - yuck. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! I blame the Bible Thumpers because they seem to flock to me and when you ask how they're doing on a particular day they reply with crap like, "I'm blessed and highly favored." AHHH! Just say you're good - not trying to go to church today lady. AHHH! And for any of you out there who use the word "blessed" reasonably and responsibly - I mean no harm and come in peace. 

So, the gay glove fits, but my father wants me to stand out there before the world - like O.J. - and act like it doesn't. We're still fighting over a plot point that has been discussed literally over a decade. You'd think I'm asking my father to watch gay porn with me over beer and chips. I just want him to be decent and be happy that his son is happy. I also want him to be happy that I have not bedazzled and added fur to my gay gloves - it could always be worse, or at least more sparkly and in your face. 

I have not decided whether I plan to call my father this week or not. I am least 10% decent and that part of me feels like I should call my father and wish him a happy day and hope that he remains "blessed and highly favored." Of course, the other 90% of me feels like a sarcastic bitchy bastard and that part of me feels like not talking to him - ever - and ensuring that he gets sent to a nursing home where they withhold his dentures so he has to gum all of his food when he's older. We will see what happens...