Pimp my Pride

Sometimes it strikes me as odd that our parents can be that inherently oblivious about that pink elephant in the room. Although I've always assumed that my inherent homosexuality is as obvious as the nose on my face, it's struck me recently that the improbable notion hasn't really sunk in with my parents yet. The terribly obvious answer to my perpetual bachelorhood and suspicious lack of female companionship seems to have eluded these usually perspicacious folks for some odd reason.

Haven't exactly been all that discreet with my extracurricular activities. If my unusual penchant for interior decorating and Madonna isn't tell-tale sign enough, surely the loads of coffee table books with tastefully nude males should be sufficient proof. Obviously not loud enough though since nothing short of waving a rainbow flag while sashaying in a pink feather boa would do.

That certifiably insane thought did occur to me yesterday when my mom returned from a recent academic course with a veritable stack of numbers, quite enough to fill the sizeable phone book of a populous village. It did strike my curiosity as I wondered why she'd taken down the numbers of so many of the participants - since although my mom's a naturally gregarious sort, collecting strange name cards doesn't seem to be her thing. Obviously she's decided to incorporate corporate matchmaking into her repertoire for my sake.

When she boldly thrust the numbers at me in anxious expectation, she might as well have smacked me across the head with a sledgehammer - that was exactly how flabbergasted I was. Surely the private number of Chris Evans / Brandon Routh would have been far more appropriate - and certainly far more welcome.


Let's pretty you up for the ride.
Instead, now I have the unenviable choice of going out with either Jewel Jane or Banker Brenda - two particularly pretty, enterprising ladies. Rather than try to expand her own social circle, seems to me that my ambitious mother has been going around these social functions with an eye to match her sole unmarried child to the highest bidder. Despite her good intentions, the terrifying thought filled me with such unholy disgust as I painfully recalled the poor unfortunate maidens being offered to me by their expectant mothers, waving their resumes and dowries before my disinterested nose. Trying to imagine my mother pimping me out in a similar fashion in public made me want to sink into the floor in sheer embarassment. Wouldn't have surprised me if she'd slipped a couple of my hideous homely passport photos to hand around during dinner.

So I have two numbers picked at random in hand - after I rejected the rest summarily without even looking from sheer orneriness. Not sure what demon possessed me to go along but hell who knows, they could have cute brothers. :)