You know how they say one man's junk is another man's treasure? Well, one woman's hush-hushed ambiguity about her son's gayness (AHEM, hi mom!) is another woman's cause for...wishful thinking.
Cookie writer Judith Newman has a clever essay on the magazine's web site where she bemoans her twin sons' "irredeemable hetereosexuality." Whereas my mom winces and flits me away everytime I approach her with a new handbag, earrings or make up tips, poor Judith Newman can only dream of "a companion to do all the things I love—dance, ballet, theater, midnight screenings of The Sound of Music. We would share so much. We would both be in awe of Nabokov, Susan Sontag, and David Sedaris; when he came over to watch TV on my 100-inch flat-screen, we'd both get the vapors watching the leather-pants-clad John Travolta in Grease. Never would I have to listen to a conversation that involved the words "point spread."
Sigh.
Did I ever tell you the story of when I took my bedraggled mother all over Paris? And homegirl left her hair product and make up at home? And then didn't want to buy any to replace it? "Es muy expensive con el Euro" she reasoned. We still had a lovely time, but still, I felt unappreciated. The least my mom could have done was wear a delicious Dior coutrue confection and not assault me with the words "I got it at Dress Barn!" For Christ's sake, mother - I thought - we're at Versailles! Were it not for the fact that my mom loves tossing cosmos back with me and can cut a b***h with two words, a look and a Bic pen, or the fact that my mom is still my favorite person to go to the movies with or the fact that she loves Edith Piaf as much as I do and is even more (cloestedly) liberal than me, I'd be beside myself like Joan Crawford, trembling, wondering, demanding "Why can't you give me the respect you'd give someone on the street?"
My mom wouldn't get that last reference, but I'm sure Judith would.
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