On Keeping a Gay Husband

Happy Thursday, interwebs of the internally challenged.

My week has been like a Baz Luhrmann movie full of color and general shenanigans, which is precisely what I needed to follow last weekend.  Sunday made me a wee bit sad as I already admitted, and so this week my gay husband and I have been on a mission to cheer up.

(For new people:  Bub is actual husband, Mr. T is the best friend, aka gay husband).

As you may or may not know I spend most of my week sitting in my pajamas, which inevitably include tank tops with holes around the nipples, and writing.  When I am not doing this, the gay-husband Mr. T and I like to play Real Housewives of Los Angeles or on a particularly sassy day as was Tuesday, Real Housewives of Disneyland.

We are like twins who have developed our own shorthand language.  If we spend more than an hour together, we always end up convulsing into inexplicable fits of hysterical laughter over nothing.  I do not recommend spending more than an hour with us.

When you take our little freakshow to Disneyland, we are so much worse.  Sometimes we don't even make it to the actual park before someone is convulsing and threatening to pee on something.  Case and point, Mr. T was in the backseat on the way there on Tuesday, and he was complaining about the arctic level of air conditioning that I enjoy.  Half hour outside of the park we had already started laughing.  Mr. T prepared to text Bub to let him know that he would be peeing in the backseat of our new car, but no need to fret, because of the temperature it would just be a frozen pee cube.

At some point in the day, we always end up talking to each other exclusively in our LA voice - it's like if a gay man and a snotty valley girl taught a child to talk, and that childs tongue had been stung by bees...Also if that child demanded at every restaurant to know if their kale was organic, demanded to know how many calories she would be consuming if she rode Pirates of the Caribbean, demanded to know if the fat ghosts on Haunted Mansion had ever tried the cayenne pepper cleanse, demanded to know if tourists from the midwest lived in any proximity to the middle east.

We also decided that the day called for me to have many hairdo changes.  Throughout the day I had braids, a side pony, pigtails, and a Mormon updo (which led to me asking the attendant on haunted mansion if she was confident the ghosts had all accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior).

Suffice it to say, we usually go alone.

On Tuesday my closest local lady friend Ms. Kali braved it, bless her heart. I do not believe she knew what she was getting into. At first she was adult supervision, and then she threw her hands in the air and decided to join the circus.  (She even got herself a circus themed pair of ears).

Still on our cheer-up mission, today Mr. T and I went to see The Great Gatsby. We both psychotically love Baz Luhrmann with a disconcerting ferocity.  (He's the Director of the to die for Leo version of Romeo + Juliet, and though I usually disapprove of movie musicals on principal, the amazing Moulin Rouge!).

I will try not to ruin this for anybody (but seriously guys?  Didn't even read it in High School?) so I'll give you the jist.  Leo is in a love triangle with Carey Mulligan and another actor (where Carey Mulligan is the desired object...) Tobey Maguire is the cousin of Carey's and friend to both men, and the narrator.

Now, I never understood lusting after the Leo of the Titanic era, but the R&J Leo, yes ma'am.  I'll take two.  To this day when I watch that movie I am capable of muting my usually cynical heart ( why don't they just run away?), wholeheartedly investing myself in their love for one another and wanting to bathe my fully naked body in Hawaiian shirts, spurs, and Leo's floppy bangs.  Leo's gayness has never stopped me before from believing him as a straight man.

Oh, I believe Leo is gay. Right?  I mean... he's gay. I'll give you a moment if you would like to adjust to the shock of it and come back.

.......

So since Mr. T had already seen Gatsby prior to today and had already expressed to me that there was no way to walk out of the movie without thinking that Leo & Tobey have at one point or another slept together. I remained skeptical.

The movie was great, it was great.  But as per usual Mr. T is right, and watching Tobey and Leo make faces at each other is a bit like watching Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt in "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" when they were allegedly totes platonic.

The irony being that I think if Leo were just out and gay, he could play straight without any squinting or head tilting from anyone...but he is now lining his closet with the red-faced alcohol bloat of a never-ending shame spiral, and the apparent insistence for an uneven snookie like orange splotch of bronzer on his chin.  Cue head tilting.

Now that I'm home and plucking 40 lbs of popcorn out of my bra, I am developing a deep respect for Carey Mulligan's acting chops. She is essentially having to play not only the lone taco, but the deeply desired taco in a sea of bratwurst lovers at Oktoberfest. Give that girl an Oscar.

I wanted to reach into the screen and tell Daisy (her character) 'dude.. You can totally have two husbands with far less drama if you just make sure that your gay husband knows he's gay, okay?  I'm here in the dark with my gay husband and no one's going to get butt hurt over it'.

I say this because, as evidenced in my every day life and particularly this week, having a spare gay-husband is absolutely invaluable.  And he doesn't get me into sticky situations, he unsticks me from myself.

(Yes that actually happened at Disneyland, and after he satiated his catty bitch and took a picture, Mr. T, in fact, unstuck me).

This week I read the amazing post on depression that I'm sure you've all seen.  The author illustrates how she spent a year in a deep depression, and what started to snap her out of it wasn't her many concerned loved ones or even her own desire to.  She was one day crying on the floor of her kitchen (as you do) and happened to notice a single piece of shriveled corn stuck under her fridge.  Something about the sheer absurdity of that threw her into a hysterical laughing fit for the first time in a year and she started to come to.

Bub is my soulmate, my partner, my one true love, my lover, my world.  Mr. T is my friend-mate, my long lost twin, my shriveled piece of corn.

We both have our husbands and obviously a way different kind of love for them then we do for each other, but I'm his spare husband and he is mine.  I would die if I didn't have Bub, I would cease to see vivid Luhrmannesque colors if I didn't have Mr. T.

If I were to create a gift basket to all new infertiles full of shit that they would need, it would be full of pee sticks, instructions on how to block people on Facebook, some tequila and their very own Mr. T.

You absolutely need your husband or wife on this road (unless you don't in which case may I say, you're a badass) to go through it with you, but I really wish everyone had someone on the outside of the situation to gripe about it with you.

With Bub, right or wrong, I don't always tell him when something tiny upsets me about the uppity world of fertiles, because frankly I don't want to bring him down with me if I don't have to.  Mr. T is on the outside.

If I get sonogram snipered, he can tell me that that girl sucks balls and always has.

If at Disneyland I fantasize about renting an empty stroller just so that I can hit the back of fertiles heels to see how they like it, he doesn't see anything wrong with this plan and may even encourage it.

He can remind me that the Moms we see on Facebook are mostly completely fucking miserable.  Maybe they even have a secret meth problem.

He can correct me with certainty when my 'whens' become 'ifs'.

He can put my hair in a mormon updo because some days require a lot of hairdos.

It's an embarrassment of riches, having my two husbands.  One that makes it hard to feel too sorry for myself, even just a few days after Mother's Day.  I'm lucky.  I have a team to unstick me when I've stuck myself to the kitchen floor.

So my suggestion to Carey Mulligan's Daisy is for gawds sake, if you're going to have a spare husband make sure he's gay and he knows it.  Far less drama.  You might not get a movie out of it but you'd certainly get a good time at Disney.