Let's all just take a moment to admire today's houseboy before mrpeenee wanders off into another of my long-winded stories, shall we?
There, isn't that better? Now for a story with wind of great length:
We are in a quandary. Our dear friend The Fashion Sensation has had Parkinson's disease for several years; her condition has worsened dramatically over the last two years. That would, of course, be enough to cause grave distress among her friends. The quandary arises because of her wholehearted embrace of a string of what I think are crazyass bad decisions, to wit, quit her big shot, career defining Important Job, divorce her odd, but charming husband, and move off to a farm outside Toronto to live with some guy she met online last spring and with whom she has been conducting a torrid Skype-based affair.
And you wonder why my stories are long-winded.
I tried addressing my concerns with her, using small, firm words, particularly the one that living in Toronto would expose her to snow. But, since she grew up in some godforsaken state abutting Canadia richly supplied in frozen tundra, she apparently does not share my deep seated and wholly sensible suspicion of the stuff.
I would have expanded my objections to include the fact she has been considering this since April, but waited to spring on her unsuspecting hubby until two days before they were supposed to leave on a trip to Berlin (in January?) when he was sick in bed the fact that she has filed for divorce. Uh, honey? So making it hard for me to stay on your side.
Plus, I'm constantly distracted by her attempts to expand on the details of how Skype Love works between man and woman. Why do straight women think gay men need tutorials? I know how the plumbing operates; the rest does not need my attention. Do I share the finer points of felching? No.
So anyway, in a totally cowardly way, I have been avoiding conversations, even emails because I feel like if I really am convinced this is the Big Mess Express, I should have intervened and done so before now. And tonight when she wrote to say today was her birthday and could we go out for brunch this weekend did not help the "I am Such a Bad Friend/Worm/Dog" sensation.
In my defense, let me remind the court that my good pal Brian once took me aside to warn me the guy over whom I was making a fool of myself didn't love me, would never love me, and that I should just move on. You can see where this is going, right? Yes, the guy was R Man and by ignoring Brian's advice, I opened myself to thirty years of wedded bliss. I have ever since then been reluctant to hand out advice.
Maybe this is The Fashion Sensation's big, last chance at happiness. What do I know?
I'll tell you what I know. The Canadian told her he wanted to take care of her. Not was willing to. Wanted to. I took care of R Man at the end and it was awful, heart-breaking, exhausting work. I'm glad I did it, for my sake as well as R's, but to say it's something you want? Ick. Plus he writes her long letters with darling water colours and drawings and pressed leaves and, I don't know, glitter rainbows. Probably. Behavior I expect more from a teenage gay boy. Not some guy I'm interested in handing over an ailing old friend.
I was going to throw this open to a vote, should I or shouldn't I hurl myself into the breach with a loud "Get a grip honey," But really it's too late. I'll just go to brunch and see what happens.
Instead, we can vote on which houseboy you prefer, Brock (above) or Santiago (below).
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