In-Bred and In Bed...

They say the downfall of empire is often in-breeding.

Thankfully Prince Harry is a big homo and we're getting married, subsequently injecting some adopted Malawian blood into the stagnant Windsor bloodline. If Liz thought her annus horribilis was the year when Chuck and Di got divorced, bitch ain't seen nothing yet.

But back to more important things... like Sim Sim Sima. As you are all probably well aware, mom is deep into the stage of life I like to call: the Baby Boomer Dispersal. Boomers, who have spent their entire lives consuming everything from LP's to Video Casettes to antique tea cups, are now in complete luddite mode, downsizing their lives from centre hall mansions to pied a tierre's in Yorkville - and in the process ditching all of the crap consumed over the years that have filled various dens, finished basements and mud rooms. Sima is no exception. In fact I'd say her life is currently consumed with an obsession about getting rid of her "stuff". We once had a garage sale where I found her selling dollar store candy trays (thankfully they were on sale for a buck... although I aruged that they were only a dollar because of current price parity with mom's home currency - the greenback). Come over the two-fer, you'll probably leave with a candy dish and cake stand.

This is good news for Bold and myself. We each now own silver serving platters; one less thing to tick off my list of things to consume (IPOD - $229, jeans - $300, cashmere sweater - $250, silver crockery - low low cost of free). Family heilooms have been split relatively evenly between Bold and myself. Anything we both want is usualy split over your typical Friday night dinner:

Bold: I'll trade you the grandfather clock for the Chaggal print?
Me: No way sister. That painting is key to me finding a husband...
Bold: How so?
Me: It's my dowery. How do you think I attract gay men?
Bold: Sex?
Me: No. Art.
Bold: Maybe that's why you're single. [I may be paraphrasing Bold here... but she's so Bold that she would say something like that, in fact, she once told me, "you've dated three gay men from McGill history - none of them have worked, maybe its time to move on? And besides - how many more gay man are there who are graduates of the History deparment?" Girl has a point. If anyone knows a University of Toronto history graduate - please send them my way.]

Papa Len finds the whole thing a bit distasteful and instead spends most of the time making faces at his grandson who is too innocent to realize what is truly going on while planning his getaway lifestyle in AJewJew Mexico.

As for one of the bigger prizes of mom's stuff - fine china - Bold got the good set, leaving me to placate my wounds with a particularly nice cake tray. This is fine by me because most of the boys who have dumped me have generally used the following terminology: "you're ready to register for china, I'm not." Well... wouldn't you know - the joke, the joke is on them as this weekend mom offered a consolation prize: apparently - she has incomplete set of china that she'd like her fag son to have. Huzzah!

So dearest M-Bomb, the Rama, O-Fag, the water polo player, the investment banker and other various men I've collected along the way: I'm not ready to register for a china pattern - I come with one! (gold platted too, so suck on that).

Where I am going with this? Oh right... in breeding. When you grow up in the Faux and you realize you want to stay there - you wind up looking for someone who's going to bring china to the table. Get it? This is a particularly awful realization to come to terms with (Am I that materialistic... the answer probably is yes?), when you're an ardent romantic like myself. But to quote a good friend in describing her current boyfriend, "you want someone who fits." And people who fit often have things like cottages in Muskoka and or raised minten Royal Crown Derby serving dishes. Fit is a nice word for saying, "I won't feel awkward about talking about my possessions, private school education, trust fund and or lululemon pants." Love round the village isn't just about your heart, its also about your pocket book.

This desire to find a mate who "fits" makes total sense and this is why - when I look around my circle of Faux Hill friends - I realize that everyone has a) fucked each other b) is fucking each other c) will fuck each other d) will fuck each other over and e) will fuck each other over until they'll decide to get married (most people fall into category e) on the multiple choice that is your LSAT test of your life).

I was recently at a big birthday party for a couple of private schooled girlfriends: the Blackout Party. Everyone wore black and there were masks floating about; it was pretty darn fabulous. For most of the night I sat with my ex boyfriend on a banquet seat, wondering when we let things get so awkward... Didn't we used to really like hanging out with each other? After making a complete fool of myself ("please come home with me... I just want to lie in bed with you and cuddle..." and here's a tip for other gay men reading this blog - don't say things like that - gay men aren't sensitive, no matter how many cliches have sprouted from Sex and the City and Will and Grace). With tail tucked between legs I promptly left (before more harm was done, like dropping the L word, in a drunken last ditch manoeuver); however, before I could extricate myself from the party a distant acquaintance - Krista - stopped me at the door.

"You and M aren't still together?" she asked.
"No."
"But you still like him? I can tell."
"Yes. He just doesn't want to be in a relationship." [codeword for: I'm just not that into you...]
"Well... I just want to let you know that I waited five years for Ted (her current boyfriend) to be ready. I know it sucks because you watch them hook up with other people and its really hurtful, but in the end it all worked out - and our relationship is amazing now. Don't give up. Wait. I know everyone will tell you to move on; don't." While riding back to my apartment alone in a cab, I contemplated her AWFUL advice and the later as I sat in my bathroom crying... (I'm a sensitive lad) I thought... if I was indeed over the ex, I wouldn't be sitting on the ikea rug in tears, now would I?

So why did Krista wait for Ted? Because - they were part of an extended Faux Hill social circle. The long term prognosis for they're relationship, at least on paper made perfect sense... too bad it took five years and a lot of tears for it to actually happen.

I called up Kelly the other day to let her know that Holt was coming with me to the Blackout party.
"You invited him?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because..."
"Well he can't come."
"Why?"
"Because Ashleigh is going to be there."
"So what's the problem?"
"Holt has been sleeping with her for the past year and its getting awkward. Her mom hates him."
"He's sleeping with Ashleigh? But wasn't he dating that girl - what's her face? The one from Sudbury or something?"
"Yes. Jessica. But in between all of his other girlfriends, he calls up Ashleigh and professes his undying love for her."
"How the fuck was I supposed to know this? I can barely keep track of who I'm sleeping with let alone who Holt is sleeping with - is there a blog maybe? PeopleHoltHasFucked.blogspot.com?"

Mark my words - two years from now - I'll be trolling gay.com/ Jdate looking for a boyfriend to take with me to the Holt/Ashleigh nuptuals at the Rosedale Golf and Country Club. They may not be perfect - but they fit.

And that's Love in the village for you. For your average Village resident, who is too busy working and or partying - who has time to integrate someone into your group of friends? And on top of it - life is so precarious for your average Faux Hillary (will I be able to move back into the Village?) that inevitably there is safety in numbers. Remember - its frightening to be 25 and trying to cobble together a pseudo establishment life for yourself. When you're busy re-arranging chairs on the titanic (as the great white establishment elite clings to whatever sense of power it has left in this city) - you ain't dating outside the tribe.

Remember the wise words of Sim Sim Sima: "Your father dated that shiksa nurse. And then he married me. He knew what he wanted and he wanted what he knew." The shitty rotten truth that no one admits: love (and I'm a victim of this myself) isn't just about looks or sexual chemistry - but love in the Vilage - is about the fact that you have 35 mutual friends on Facebook. In breeding is so hot right now.