I have something a bit meatier to talk about - but that shit has got to wait for me to edit and alas I do have a job that sometimes requires me to work (odd - I know for those people who think I sit in my cubicle and stalk people on Facebook, which I do occassionally - especially if I've slept with you - then I probably obsessively look at your profile, even if we last had sex like two years ago, then I chuckle at potentially how fat you've gotten, or about how you started to dig chicks after we slept together nd then I wonder if I'm like toxic or something...) and so a little something more light-hearted for this aft.
But anyway - back to my mother, whom I love dearly, even if, our relationship is quite the Faux Hill mother/son stereotype.
"Why are you so neurotic?" A WASPY boyfriend, whose mother was so removed and cold I retrospectically liked her more then I liked her son, once asked me. "You've met my mother haven't you?" Was my reply.
In her sidetime, when she isn't working or cleaning out our basement in preparation for her move to Mexico (circa 2012), Sim Sim Sima does a fair bit of neighbourhood Faux Hillary schmoozing. Of our neighbours her favourite family is probably the Ming Dynasty. The Ming Dynasty does something that makes them a lot of money and live in a large house down the street from us. Sim Sim Sima doesn't realize that they are quite famous Toronto celebrity types - she just thinks their house is really nice and she knows they have a lot of money, which impresses her. "They have Frette linen tablecloths!" More importantly, they have a daughter. A younge, pretty, daughter who will inhereit the Ming Dynasty.
"I was over at Becca's house last night." Becca being the daugther. "Such a lovely girl. So well raised. So well mannered."
"Yes mom..."
"She's always asking how you're doing. I think she has a little crush on you."
"Tell her I like penis."
"Still not interested, not a bit? She's really beautiful."
"Nope."
"You wouldn't have to work."
"I wouldn't be happy."
"But you're single now anyway... Why don't you just try?"
And so it continues and I wonder why Sim Sim Sima doesn't spend more time at Upper Canada trying to find me a nice little gaygetz who wants to go to law or medical school? Will fuck for food. I also make a mean spaghetti sauce, and give a pretty solid BJ. All solid selling points. But whatever... I'm digressing.
To wit - my friend Laura wants me to marry our mutual friend whom I'll call Frizzle. Frizzle is a lesbian. She's also Jewish. We're both Gews, gay jews... so its perfect, right?
"She grew up in Cederville, you grew up in Forest Hill. It's perfect. Love across Bathurst."
"But we're both gay."
"You'll please your parents though..."
"What are we going to do - express our vows over a rainbow coloured scruntchie?"
"Please. Hair scruntchie's - what is this 1996?"
So the question is this - to what extent are boys of the Village willing to go to please their mothers? Or perhaps is the question moot; as I told mom how I did on my GMAT's, she voiced: "maybe you should re-write it - you can probably do better." But really... that's how I know she loves me :)
Showing posts with label Sim Sim Sima. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sim Sim Sima. Show all posts
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Village Faygeleh's
Faygelleh - Yiddish for bird. Also Yiddish for homo's.
~
I was at a party recently when someone asked me, "So why'd you wait so long to come out?"
Publically I didn't come out until my fourth year of university... I decided, after I spent the summer fooling around with the stock boy at the Gap, that I was indeed a proud member of the population that is 10% more fabulous then the rest of you. Truthfully I had probably known I was gay a couple of years earlier when I discovered the internet and gay porn... meh. I'm sure this came as no shock to anyone who knew me, so the whole ordeal was the big snoozer of the 2004 gossip circuit. Miriam Abromowitz's new bangs got more coverage at David's by Day then my Coming Out party did, swear.
Sometimes I think I have no clue why I waited "for so long" to come to terms my faggotry; especially when I probably could have come out in high school and found myself a nice Uptown WASP [I went to a whitey public high school] to take to the formal instead of my then girlfriend, who was christened with the awful nickname, Fuckily Screwberg. Fuckily subsequently went a bit crazy after high school and decamped to Vancouver (not that I think her crazyness had ANYTHING to do with me. No seriously).
And on top of my progressive high school education Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len are loving, amazing and supportive parents. Papa Len - like the good father that he is - drove me to the airport the morning after I spilled tears on the granite kitchen island telling my folks I was a big homo, handed me my school bag, gave me a hug and said, "Nothings changed son, nothings changed." Then he asked if I needed any money and slipped me $40.00 bucks while my mother was pre-occupied sending emails on her Blackberry (WWSD, always)...
So with supportive parents, a supportive, albeit BOLD sister (you're playing safe, right?), and the best friends money could never buy, why'd I wait? The answer - I'd argue has nothing to do sexuality and has everything to do with the inadvertent pressures my generation and class have placed on ourselves to become idealized version of successful citizenry.
Like many kids of the Village, both gay and straight, I had imbued myself with an incredible vision of what I needed to accomplish in order to be successful. And truthfully being gay didn't fit into the equation - the same way that being a teacher doesn't fit into this pre-conceived nature of success either. My next door neighbour once pulled me aside at a dinner party and as we discussed my future life path [nothing like a fifty your old swilling red wine in the corner of your living room telling you that you should fuck everything you can], where she admitted, "ya know what? You don't have to live like this..." (And by like this she meant centre-hall mansion, mortgage and European car in the driveway.) True - but what if I did want to live like that?
This same sense of hyper competitiveness is what brought about a teary phone call from my Jess last week. Jess is a smart, pretty and successful 26 year-old (if anyone is looking for a nice Jewish girl... I can hook it up); girl has a MBA for example, so certainly she's not going to be living in a van down by the river, ya know? However Jess called me wondering why she felt like such a loser. Because at 26 - she wasn't married, like her mom was at 23, nor did she own a house. Sure these may seem unreasonable goals to most, but in the social circle of Village kids, Jess' version of her life, while an unreasonable goal to many - was a holy grail to her. In fact she'd made herself sick over being a 26 year-old single girl with a MBA.
Only in the Village is this life a disaster... and yet I totally understood her plight. So I ask you if this apparent inferiority complex is the plight of your average Faux Hillary - what happens to one who happens to like penis when he shouldn't?
Someone once called me a class traitor - and today - that line perhaps holds true - as I trade out both a member of my own class and sexual orientation, with a full scale blind item. But I mean what's a gossip column without a blind item?
I happened to run into one of the Village's finest, Ben, over the weekend. Ben comes from a lovely old-school Village family. Father does something that makes a lot of money (doctor, lawyer, or maybe an accountant) and the mother is well known for selling fake Louis Vuitton's out of her basement. Sure she doesn't make much - but now that the kids are grown up and the nanny's paying off her RRSP contributions with continued employment - girl has to do something, right?
But back to Ben. Oh Ben... Ben is a very attractive metrosexual with a loving girlfriend who he's been dating throughout his tenure at university. I hadn't seen him for years until I ran into him last year when we were both on winter vacation with our parents. As we stood in a Mexican bar, awkwardly, Ben just looked at me and said, "I wonder what my girlfriend is doing now?" It was he was making a Tom Cruise esque point - Ben is a virile heterosexual man with a girlfriend he cares about.
The problem with this lovely portrait (and I know people are already picturing a nice, tatsteful wedding at Beth Tzedic, Mazel Tov to the parents etc...) - Ben used to fuck my good friend. Oh and did I mentioned that the friend Ben fucked was a guy? And I'm pretty sure it wasn't one of those, "I'm just experimenting" phases. It was prolonged... and continued, to the point that every school break Ben and my friend could be caught necking in a parked Mercedes at the Bathurst Jewish Community Centre parking lot (can you get any more wrong then that?).
So why the blind item, I mean who I am to judge Ben?
That's a tenuous one isn't it... on one hand I can completely commiserate with hating the concept of being gay. Lord knows it took me years to come to terms with own sexuality and I still see myself struggle on certain days with accepting aspects of my 'other' culture. And it still forms a large part of my relationships with potential mates - being gay is always an odd elephant in the room. Admitting your sexuality even with supportive parents and friends is a bitch at best. Admitting your sexuality when you've grown up in a heteronormative culture where you've pressured YOURSELF to become a successful and virile contributor to the Zionist cause is that much harder.
But back to dear Jess - who called me back feeling a lot better. I felt that it was time to bring up the Gatsby clause of life.
"The Gatsby clause?" she asked.
"Don't waste your life chasing the American dream," I said, "as I fished out my dog-eared copy of the Great Gatsby, to quote: 'Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further . . . And one fine morning- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.'"
But the real truth for people like Ben, myself and Jess (straight, gay or bisexual)? The truth that you have to remind yourself before you go crazy - Success, be it in the Village or elsewhere, gay or straight - is yours to define. So define it well and define it so it makes you happy - don't chase the green light. Gatsby got shot remember and Ben's probably engaged to be married...
Perhaps its time to organize a Faux Hill Village Pride Parade? Sim Sim Sima would make a great Grand Marshall don't ya think? I'm just not sure if she can find a rainbow coloured sweater set at Talbots. Shucks!
~
I was at a party recently when someone asked me, "So why'd you wait so long to come out?"
Publically I didn't come out until my fourth year of university... I decided, after I spent the summer fooling around with the stock boy at the Gap, that I was indeed a proud member of the population that is 10% more fabulous then the rest of you. Truthfully I had probably known I was gay a couple of years earlier when I discovered the internet and gay porn... meh. I'm sure this came as no shock to anyone who knew me, so the whole ordeal was the big snoozer of the 2004 gossip circuit. Miriam Abromowitz's new bangs got more coverage at David's by Day then my Coming Out party did, swear.
Sometimes I think I have no clue why I waited "for so long" to come to terms my faggotry; especially when I probably could have come out in high school and found myself a nice Uptown WASP [I went to a whitey public high school] to take to the formal instead of my then girlfriend, who was christened with the awful nickname, Fuckily Screwberg. Fuckily subsequently went a bit crazy after high school and decamped to Vancouver (not that I think her crazyness had ANYTHING to do with me. No seriously).
And on top of my progressive high school education Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len are loving, amazing and supportive parents. Papa Len - like the good father that he is - drove me to the airport the morning after I spilled tears on the granite kitchen island telling my folks I was a big homo, handed me my school bag, gave me a hug and said, "Nothings changed son, nothings changed." Then he asked if I needed any money and slipped me $40.00 bucks while my mother was pre-occupied sending emails on her Blackberry (WWSD, always)...
So with supportive parents, a supportive, albeit BOLD sister (you're playing safe, right?), and the best friends money could never buy, why'd I wait? The answer - I'd argue has nothing to do sexuality and has everything to do with the inadvertent pressures my generation and class have placed on ourselves to become idealized version of successful citizenry.
Like many kids of the Village, both gay and straight, I had imbued myself with an incredible vision of what I needed to accomplish in order to be successful. And truthfully being gay didn't fit into the equation - the same way that being a teacher doesn't fit into this pre-conceived nature of success either. My next door neighbour once pulled me aside at a dinner party and as we discussed my future life path [nothing like a fifty your old swilling red wine in the corner of your living room telling you that you should fuck everything you can], where she admitted, "ya know what? You don't have to live like this..." (And by like this she meant centre-hall mansion, mortgage and European car in the driveway.) True - but what if I did want to live like that?
This same sense of hyper competitiveness is what brought about a teary phone call from my Jess last week. Jess is a smart, pretty and successful 26 year-old (if anyone is looking for a nice Jewish girl... I can hook it up); girl has a MBA for example, so certainly she's not going to be living in a van down by the river, ya know? However Jess called me wondering why she felt like such a loser. Because at 26 - she wasn't married, like her mom was at 23, nor did she own a house. Sure these may seem unreasonable goals to most, but in the social circle of Village kids, Jess' version of her life, while an unreasonable goal to many - was a holy grail to her. In fact she'd made herself sick over being a 26 year-old single girl with a MBA.
Only in the Village is this life a disaster... and yet I totally understood her plight. So I ask you if this apparent inferiority complex is the plight of your average Faux Hillary - what happens to one who happens to like penis when he shouldn't?
Someone once called me a class traitor - and today - that line perhaps holds true - as I trade out both a member of my own class and sexual orientation, with a full scale blind item. But I mean what's a gossip column without a blind item?
I happened to run into one of the Village's finest, Ben, over the weekend. Ben comes from a lovely old-school Village family. Father does something that makes a lot of money (doctor, lawyer, or maybe an accountant) and the mother is well known for selling fake Louis Vuitton's out of her basement. Sure she doesn't make much - but now that the kids are grown up and the nanny's paying off her RRSP contributions with continued employment - girl has to do something, right?
But back to Ben. Oh Ben... Ben is a very attractive metrosexual with a loving girlfriend who he's been dating throughout his tenure at university. I hadn't seen him for years until I ran into him last year when we were both on winter vacation with our parents. As we stood in a Mexican bar, awkwardly, Ben just looked at me and said, "I wonder what my girlfriend is doing now?" It was he was making a Tom Cruise esque point - Ben is a virile heterosexual man with a girlfriend he cares about.
The problem with this lovely portrait (and I know people are already picturing a nice, tatsteful wedding at Beth Tzedic, Mazel Tov to the parents etc...) - Ben used to fuck my good friend. Oh and did I mentioned that the friend Ben fucked was a guy? And I'm pretty sure it wasn't one of those, "I'm just experimenting" phases. It was prolonged... and continued, to the point that every school break Ben and my friend could be caught necking in a parked Mercedes at the Bathurst Jewish Community Centre parking lot (can you get any more wrong then that?).
So why the blind item, I mean who I am to judge Ben?
That's a tenuous one isn't it... on one hand I can completely commiserate with hating the concept of being gay. Lord knows it took me years to come to terms with own sexuality and I still see myself struggle on certain days with accepting aspects of my 'other' culture. And it still forms a large part of my relationships with potential mates - being gay is always an odd elephant in the room. Admitting your sexuality even with supportive parents and friends is a bitch at best. Admitting your sexuality when you've grown up in a heteronormative culture where you've pressured YOURSELF to become a successful and virile contributor to the Zionist cause is that much harder.
But back to dear Jess - who called me back feeling a lot better. I felt that it was time to bring up the Gatsby clause of life.
"The Gatsby clause?" she asked.
"Don't waste your life chasing the American dream," I said, "as I fished out my dog-eared copy of the Great Gatsby, to quote: 'Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further . . . And one fine morning- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.'"
But the real truth for people like Ben, myself and Jess (straight, gay or bisexual)? The truth that you have to remind yourself before you go crazy - Success, be it in the Village or elsewhere, gay or straight - is yours to define. So define it well and define it so it makes you happy - don't chase the green light. Gatsby got shot remember and Ben's probably engaged to be married...
Perhaps its time to organize a Faux Hill Village Pride Parade? Sim Sim Sima would make a great Grand Marshall don't ya think? I'm just not sure if she can find a rainbow coloured sweater set at Talbots. Shucks!
Friday, October 19, 2007
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.
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.
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