Our very own Diana

A princess arrives. With carry-on.

I have my own princess. And I'm not talking about the whiny Long Island variety, I'm talking bona fide royalty.

I spent a year in France when I was in high school, living with a family. (Mindy gives a nice recap of our visit with them in France last year.) I enjoyed wonderful hospitality from all the families in the little town where I was living, but none were quite like this particular family. They were so sweet and generous with me I could hardly believe my good fortune. They would spontaneously say things like "hey Tom, why don't you invite about 20 of your school friends over this weekend. We'll have a barbecue!" I was very sad when I had to leave them at the end of the year and return to my own sullen brood.

The eldest daughter of this family is a year younger than me, so we were especially close when I was living in her home. She has her personality quirks just like anyone else, but I always found her to be utterly delightful. And very pretty to boot.

Brunching at French Roast

Anne's family is an upstanding one in France, and actually suffers a bit of a "reputation" in this little town. I never saw this side of them, and granted, maybe they were putting on a nicer facade for me, but a lot of people in the town referred to them as "those snobs." I found them to be anything but. Sure, they liked to enjoy the finer things in life, but I didn't exactly feel them turning me away at the door. Plus, I can't help it if some people just don't know how to dress.

But anyway, they were lovely, and I've kept in touch with them all these years.

Anne always aspired to greater things in life, and in keeping with her plan she ended up marrying into German royalty. Literally. Although the Germans no longer have any official responsibility-bearing titles, the former royals are quite proud of hanging onto their titles that apparently used to mean a lot more in an official sense than they do now. Social registers and all that jazz. I don't know a whole lot about it except to say that her husband is officially a "prince" and his mother is "Countess of something and something" etc. And that when his mother passes away his title becomes even nobler. I need to look into how that all works.

Have you ever been crowded into a small elevator with a princess? George and I have.

They got married about 13 years ago, and I always figured it was a fairy tale romance. But alas, I recently discovered all has not been well in paradise, and that the "happy" couple is splitting up.

While it's hard to feel sympathy for a princess when there are billions of people in the world suffering from real problems, I still feel bad for her. But anyway.


Anne called a while ago to tell me of her woes and to ask if she could come spend a long weekend with us in New York. "Mais bien sur!" I told her and began making plans on how to regale her in the same spirit of generosity with which her family has always treated me. I have always tried to go to extra lengths to be nice to them whenever they come to visit me, which they've done numerous times in the U.S. In fact, last summer Anne celebrated her 40th birthday, and I was totally stressing out about what to get her since George and I were attending her party.

With Ruby in our suite at the W

"She's a fucking princess. I can't just walk in there with some piece of junk!" I thought, and George agreed. So I went to Tiffany's and got her a bracelet. And actually felt ashamed when I walked in the door with it. I was thinking "her husband is a prince and has probably given her all sorts of family jewels and all that crap. She'll just laugh at this."

Little did I know, it was the nicest present she received. In fact, her "Protestant" husband (that's how Anne's parents refer to their son-in-law) has NEVER given her a gift in all their years of marriage. NOT ONE GIFT! Needless to say, she was charmed almost to tears with our thoughtfulness.

But I hadn't yet been informed about the prince's miserly nature at the time that I was planning Anne's weekend with us. I remember talking to Mindy on the phone about it, stressing about how we were going to have a princess staying with us and we didn't even have a spare bedroom to offer her.

"I don't know how I can possibly expect this woman to sleep on our couch. With cats running all over her yet."

George and I at dinner

Mindy replied that I should make it into a funny blog post, and take pictures of her bundled up on the couch, which incidentally doesn't even pull out into a sleeper sofa. "It will be great. You can title it "Anne, Princess of _________, Husband of Prince ________, Daughter-in-law of Countess _________, visits the home of Mama Gin and enjoys her luxurious Brooklyn accommodations."

Very funny.

An exquisite dinner at Aquavit

After thinking about it for a short while, I came to the realization that the weekend she was visiting coincided with George's birthday. So I did the only sensible thing and booked us a suite at the W in Manhattan. It was like a madcap Manhattan weekend for the three of us to celebrate her visit and George's birthday, therefore justifying the (considerable) cost.

Pre-dinner cocktails in our suite with Ruby

We had a lot of time to talk and catch up, as well as to enjoy the finer aspects of the city. Enjoy the following pictures recapping parts of our weekend.

Oh, and the princess has agreed to sleep on our couch next time she visits.

I was careful not to eat too many rolls at Aquavit.


Ruby spent the entire evening telling Anne how she would "start healing very soon." To the point where we were cringing in embarrassment. Anne is wearing the Tiffany bracelet.



Nightcap at the W bar


Ruby admonishing Anne to buy herself jewelry if a man won't. "Look, I baaawt my own rubies and doooiiiamonds." Imagine Fran Drescher's voice and you pretty much understand what it means to spend time with Ruby.

Anne shoots us the inevitable look of "who the fuck is this woman?"

Well that's a relief

My French friend finally replied, and rather excitedly, as you can tell by her generous use of the exclamation point:

Super that you can come! My parents will still be there, so it will be totally awesome! Of course you can come with George. I need your exact address to be able to send you our magnificent invitation!!!!!

I'm having this party with a girlfriend from France who is also turning 40. So, the party will be at her place at 8:00 pm. There will be at least 50 people, and you'll be able to speak a lot of French because you'll be the only Americans!!!!

Dress is Hawaiian theme (flowered shirts, Hawaiian shorts, surfboards under your arm, etc.)

Send your address right away so that I can send you the invitation!!!!

Big kisses, (Insert name of Tom's friend here)

So, while I'm a bit concerned about the party's dress theme, it's nice to know that George is welcome. I was feeling really shitty about it for a while. Thanks for all your kind and supportive words.

Love,

CP
(and Poor George)


ps: Oh, and now I can start liking the French again. Remind me to blog about how it's important to disown an entire nationality when one of your friends of that nationality pisses you off. This policy comes in handy around St. Patrick's day, believe me.

I'm mad

Every now and again I catch myself in a bout of internalized homophobia, and it really irks me.

Before I go any further, let me clarify that when I talk about discussing gay issues, I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about normal, everyday life and relationship things. Just so we can avoid the "I don't need to hear about what you do in the bedroom" discussion.

I'll admit that I've gotten as far as I have in life by doing a certain amount of pandering. If I'm in a situation where I don't think someone will react well to the subject of homosexuality, I conveniently choose to stay in the closet. (Let me blog later on the topic of how sexual orientation differs from race in that respect. The choice I have is both a blessing and a curse.)

I usually hate myself for choosing the closet. I almost never make that choice on a long term basis; e.g., I've never decided to remain completely closeted at work. But there are times where the cover of the closet is subtle. Like if I'm with a group of people I don't know, where everyone is talking about what they did over the weekend with their spouses. Sometimes I'll just say "I went to the movies" or "I had a dinner party." On the surface these kinds of conversations aren't important, and I agree that there is certainly no need to reveal one's personal details to everybody one meets.

But again, I'm not talking about saying "Oh, did you know I was gay?" to someone. (In fact, I don't think I've said anything like that for the past 20 years.) I am talking about situations where I choose not to say "my partner and I..." when everyone else in the room is saying "my wife and I...."



I bring this topic up today because something is afoot that is bothering me a lot.



I spent a year in a small town in France when I was 16 and 17. I lived with four different families in the town, for three months each. I grew quite close to all of them, and have remained in contact all these years. In fact, Mindy and I just visited one of them a few weeks ago.

I have not quite figured out the French attitude on sexual orientation; in fact, I remain quite confused by it. Every French person to whom I have said anything about George never makes any comment at all. I had emailed my friend Martine in Paris about ten years ago when George and I first got together, and she never replied at all.

I visited Martine in France a few years ago, when she had me over to her house for a small dinner party. One of the attendees was a man I assumed was probably gay, but I didn't know for sure. I also didn't know whether Martine had even received my email five years earlier. I didn't say anything about George during the party, although aside from that I did have a nice evening.

When I got back to New York, Martine's friend and I began emailing, but I still had no idea about him - or Martine.

Then a few weeks after that, I got together with my friend Martin who knows all these people I'm talking about because he had also lived amongst them. Martin is closer to Martine than I am, so I told him about my question. Martin said "oh, well Martine TOLD me a few years ago 'I received an email from Tom - I guess he's gay now!'" Martin also confirmed that Martine's other friend is also gay.

Ok. So right there for me that blew away the notion that the French don't say anything about this stuff because they simply find it uninteresting or unimportant. Martine obviously thought it interesting and important enough to discuss it with Martin. But she couldn't take two minutes to email me back saying "I'm happy you're in love; tell me about this guy!" She chose to ignore me.

So, because I was curious about all this, I emailed Martine's friend to ask him about it, generally. He replied, rather curtly, "well of course Martine knows you and I are both gay. We just don't feel the need to discuss such private matters with each other in France." I asked some follow up questions, and he never replied.

That pissed me off. "Private matters?" French people talk about their spouses, marriages, boyfriends, girlfriends and the like every bit as much as we do. Why is the fact that I have George a "private matter" that should not be discussed? Why is a French person's marriage announcement not a "private matter?"

The fact is, what he says is a load of crap. The French just can't deal with this - at least that is my honest opinion for the moment.



Ok, so flash forward to today.



I have a good friend from one of my French families who now lives in Washington DC with her husband and children. George and I had dinner with her and her husband in New York last year when they were visiting, and I thought we had a lovely time.

This woman emailed me on Friday inviting me to her 40th birthday party in May, when her parents will be in town from France. I replied that of course I'd like to come, and that I would make lodging arrangements at another friend's house.

This is the part where my internalized homophobia kicks in, and where I am mad at myself: I then wrote something to the effect of "I would like to bring George - would that bother you? He really enjoyed meeting you and your husband and liked you both a lot. I've never spoken to your parents about George, but I think they understand, based on the fact that they no longer ask me why I'm not married. So let me know if this is OK or if you think this will be a problem."

Why on earth did I feel the need to write all that? It's pathetic of me. What would have been wrong with simply saying "mind if I bring George?"

I was pandering, plain and simple. What I communicated in that email is "I realize my life may not be acceptable to you and the people in your family. Please let me know if you and yours think I'm good enough to attend your party with my life partner, despite the fact that if you were invited to an evening party it would be assumed automatically that your husband is also invited."



Part of me is still asking the world to accept me, and it pisses me off.



Sure, I've gotten far by not being one of those Larry Kramer "angriest fags in America" types. I know that. I know how to play the game. Furthermore, I enjoy being part of civilized society, and in polite company we do not go about bandying what we think is wrong with the world. We go about our own business while acting as pleasantly and courteously as possible toward others.

Yet part of the price I pay for playing along too much with my "don't rock the boat" attitude is that I have trained myself to do and say the kinds of things I just described.

I think I've already answered my own question in writing this. All I needed to do was ask if George could come. Period. Yet, it's my motivation behind writing what I did that troubles me.


Oh, and my friend who is having the party has not replied.