Have I let everyone know that I am living with two gay men this summer? I did make everyone aware of that, right? I can’t really explain to you what life with my little china dolls is like so I will go over a few things and we’ll carry on with weekly updates (or daily might be better) so you don’t all feel left out on this Estrogen fueled roller coaster we’ll all be on for at least three months…
I think I told you all that their whole purpose in life now is to make me less like Rhonda, my lesbian alter-ego.
Apparently Rhonda is what they call women who are butchy. And Darlene. So if you ever hear them say that, it’s not flattering. I get called Rhonda at least 5 times a day. In fact, I can’t remember the last time they actually called me Heather.
I come out of my room wearing capris and a sports bra and tee shirt and my hair isn’t brushed.
“Awwwww, Rhonda, I thought we talked about wearing cargo capris?” They frown and point at the tag. “And awwww, Old Navy again? How very New England of you. And your hair. Gurrrrl, we didn’t find a brush, did we? And you need a deep condition. And maybe a mask.”All of that came out of me walking out a door wearing khaki capri pants.
The day I came out wearing yoga pants and a sports bra and a tank top with my hair on my head they said,
“Rhoooooooooooooonda! Active wear is for ACTIVE people. Moving your hand to your mouth with wine doesn’t count. Why do you have so many active wear items? Should we start waking you up by squirting you with a bottle in the face so you’ll run? Or can you chase us while we tease you with ice cream. Better yet! Gin!” Then they seal clapped and I glared.
I don’t even LIKE ice cream that much and I can’t even imagine what my real reaction to be blasted in the face at 0500 in the morning would be like. I imagine it would include a whole lot of swearing.
Then there was the time last month when at a cookout, they found me instantly and promptly, while giving me the once over, reminded me I didn’t lose the ten pounds I was going to, but opted to remind me while I had a chicken thigh jammed in my mouth, which they pointed at and did something to the effect of, “Oh my God, EWWWWWWWWWWWW, GROSS.”
It’s kind of like this Geico commercial, except this is supposed to be a funny commercial and it’s actually my real life, which the boys think is HYSTERICAL.
Bitches are judgmental up in my house. And hysterical, so I kinda love it.
Take today’s fun for example. Apparently one of them is dying with the flu, a fast hitting swine or bird flu that’s forced him to sit in cold water in my tub, maybe or maybe not whimpering and demanding to be treated.
My eyes widened as I thought what to do, considering I have no caretaker instincts and didn’t know if this was real or just real drama. I offered up some Armenian medicine I had stashed from a year back and then thought of something even better.
“There’s a Russian dancer on my mantle downstairs. It has vodka that’s the equivalent of liquid chemo in it. Give him that. It will kill anything in his body.”
I thought that was very generous of me. Back came this response.
“Oh, no worries. I made the mistake of telling him he looked like Julie Andrews from the Sound of Music because he has a washcloth draped on his head, so now he’s singing The Hills are Alive.”
Singing songs from the Sound of Music, naked and delirious in my bathtub.
Just another Thursday afternoon in The Fatherland.