Thursday, July 15, 2004


This past weekend when I was in Chicago, celebrating with my dear friends at a wedding reception, many bits of amusing conversation came up. Including after a few drinks a lot of "what if's".

First: What if I were British?

setting: large, round, banquet table

me, in a loud, posh, Brit accent: "EXCUSE ME! IS the butter up your end?"
my dear, tall, Cary Grantish friend, replying in a great accent: "Good Lord, it is!"

Second What if I had a daughter? A nice little adopted foreign daughter.
I supposed that she'd have to be French or Italian, so her skin would match Daddy's. This turned into one of my classic, if not notorious schticks.

*door bell*
Small platinum girl answering door

Person at door: Hello little girl, is your Daddy home?

Little girl in a deep, throaty, foreign voice: My name ees not "leetle girl", eets Donatella.

PAD: OK Donatella, is your Daddy home?

Donatella, drinking apple juice out of stem ware: Do you vant to come een and play Barbee weeth me?

Perhaps its much funnier when I am inebriated, but that bit of nonsense has caused me a few chuckles when reflecting back on it. This makes me wonder though, what kind of child will I end up having?

Will this child be just slightly neurotic, humorous, obsessed with order, and Bakelite flatware? Or like my sweet boyfriend...artistic, energetic, and ready to go to the Gap at the drop of a hat? No one knows for sure what their child will be like. Astonishingly, or maybe not, I am turning into my Mother. That's not such a bad thing...funny we wonder what the kids will be like, then they turn into us. Go ahead deny it. You're just lying to yourself. OK, maybe not, but it sounds more impressive if I'm emphatic.

In an almost frightening side note, and I don't know if it's confined to the Gay Community, but WAY too many straight women have offered womb space when we decide to have a child. I think we are going the route of over-seas adoption (once my other half graduates). Its generous and all, but I get kind of freaked out to think about it. As hot as I am, I am done genetically. No chip off the ol' blocks here. I want high-end baby retail. OK, send the hate mail. But I do.

Moral of this blog: No wombs need apply.

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