Starved of ideas, I am. I’m going to start doing a thing I’ve always wanted to do: steal questions from advice columns, paraphrase them or change them around a little, and give my own answers to them, answers I would have liked to see the advice columnist give. If it’s as successful as “Ishtar”, today will be the first and last. If it’s as successful as “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, I’ll get rich, be as insufferable as Justin Bieber or Michael Jordan, develop a drug habit, and stop washing. Here goes:
I’m a 45 year old guy who moved back to my home town after 20 years away. I wanted to be back home to be with my family and my boyfriend. I thought my life would be a constant Kelly Ripa commercial, but it’s not. My siblings argue all the time and my dad seems unhappy with me but won’t talk about it. What do I do?
Life isn’t Eden, Nancy-boy, and even in Eden (or just outside of there?), the first-born killed the second-born. So your family argues–big whoop. As for your dad, if you’re 45, he’s probably 65 or more, which means he grew up in the 1950s. As far as he’s probably concerned, you’re a “butt-romper” and not a regular guy and therefore a disappointment to him, plus you’re bringing your (in his eyes) “butt-rompin’ buddy” around, a lot, to his castle with you. When you lived in another town and brought him at holidays, your dad’s buddies were at their homes, busy with their family stuff, and he didn’t have to make awkward introductions. Now the “butts are in his face”, so to speak, and he feels like he’s being pushed into the role of host of a butt-rompin’ convention. This is not the Ozzie and Harriet life he envisioned any more than it’s the Xanadu you were hoping for. So cut him some slack, ask him if he minds you being gay, look for the nonverbal cues, you know, like if he throws up when you ask that, then try to keep your visits, with your guy, to your dad’s, to a minimum. You can’t change ’50s thinking, you can just hope for it to die off eventually.
As for your bro and sis, if they start arguing and seem like they’re blaming the spat on you, then just leave and take your Sally-boy boyfriend to a craft show or a chick-flick and enjoy the day. Run your hands up and down some long, scented candles together and look deeply into each other’s eyes. Talk about your favorite fashion designers and male dancers.
You didn’t mention your mom much. If she’s available, maybe ask for help from her in extracting everyone’s heads from their asses.
with awkward acceptance of your right to your freaky lifestyle,