Tongue in Cheek
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Tongue in Cheek Going Bridal |
by Kevin Isom
I'm
convinced that I'm a sadomasochist. I'm renovating another cosmetically
challenged house. And when my best friend said "Yes!" to a proposal
of marriage from her longtime boyfriend last year, I said, "I'm so
happy for you!"
In each case, I should have run, very fast,
in the other direction. Yes, our new house (which was previously owned
by an elderly man - and looked it) is bigger and better than our last
house. We're actually not on top of each other all the time. We have room
to breathe. As well as room to host family at holidays without going bananas
- at least, once the renovations are done. And my gay renovation gene
just kicked right in the moment I smelled a bargain price for a potentially
fabulous house. It's kind of a gay curse.
But three months into it, I'm wondering,
"What the heck was I thinking?" The kitchen I thought I could
live with just didn't work once we pulled out the lovely '70s paneling.
So we needed to re-do the cabinets and replace the appliances. And if
we were going to tile the kitchen floor, then why not the adjacent den,
too? You get the idea. I know it'll all be done eventually, but as I was
replacing the bathtub drain stopper in the tub we just had re-glazed,
I was thinking, "Yes, this is my fabulous gay life - God, I hope
the straight people don't find out!"
Speaking of God, the Pope died as I was
replacing that drain stopper, and the world burst into collective grief,
at least according to the news media. But I find it hard to mourn a man
who, it seems to me, did about as much evil as he did good. What, exactly,
did he do for gay folks - aside from opposing gay marriage and our very
right to exist as God’s children just as we are? I've been angry
at the Pope for years over the plain out evilness of his attacks on us,
but when someone mentions the Pope's death - in the workplace, for example,
it's unseemly to launch into a tirade. So I just look at them with a conspiratorial
smile and say, "Actually, my master, Satan, has directed us to rejoice."
That usually cuts the conversation short.
Speaking of Satan, why was I happy that
my best friend finally got engaged and decided to plan a wedding? It seemed
such a lovely idea. She's living in England and marrying a Brit. The wedding
will be in a small church in a small English town. The church is of fairly
recent vintage, being built sometime in the Middle Ages. It all sounded
charming and wonderful. Until, that is, I met Bride-zilla.
Apparently, all brides become this
way at some point. They are so stressed and miserable with the details
of the perfect wedding that they would just as soon bite your head off
as speak to you, if you say one wrong word. The groom never helps enough
in the planning, all the bridal magazines tell the prospective bride that
this must be the most perfect day of her life, and even otherwise intelligent
and enlightened brides cannot help buying into this nonsense.
So to say the least, my best friend's a
bit stressed out. And when you say to her, "Um, sweetie, I'm renovating
an old house, so I'm juggling a bit myself right now," the response
is a devastating, "Well, I'M PLANNING A WEDDING!" All else -
renovations, the death of the Pope, the potential for nuclear holocaust
if Iran gets nuclear weapons and launches them at Israel - is entirely
insignificant.
Remember how an insane postal worker went
on a killing spree some years ago, and people started using the expression,
"going postal"? My best friend has gone bridal. And I'm afraid.
Very afraid. The wedding insanity, I have realized, is the best argument
I've seen against gay marriage: do I really want to be Groom-zilla?
So when I take a break from my renovations
to fly to England in a couple weeks, I'll be prepared. I ordered the most
appropriate accoutrement I could for a bride to be, something to make
her feel special, to change the focus from the wedding itself to her actually
being in her own wedding. When she meets me at the airport, I'll tell
her that I have the perfect accessory for her outfit, and I'll pull out
the Miss America-style sash I bought that reads "Bride to Be."
It also lights up. With flashing lights.
She'll get to feel the focus is on her.
Which, as my best friend, a lovely person, and a bride to be, she most
certainly deserves. And I'll know I've done a community service by warning
the unsuspecting public that they are in the presence of a bride.
Kevin Isom is the author of It Only Hurts When I Polka and Tongue in Cheek and Other Places, available at bookstores and online. He may be reached at isomonline@aol.com or www.KevinIsom.com