Logically speaking, I thought for sure I’d be Elton John’s emergency womb
Conversation with my friend Alexandria, who recently returned from a trip to Cambodia:
Alexandria: Oh, ugh. I’ve been hella sick. Finally went to the clinic today — vomiting, shivers, nasty skin staph infection and they’re “not sure I don’t have malaria.” Fun.
Me: My co-worker just chimed in: “George Clooney has malaria, too!”
Alexandria: OK, logic: George Clooney has lots of luck with the ladies. Therefore, anything George Clooney and I have in common will help me with the ladies?
Me: That’s very sound logic. I can say that with certainty because I dated a girl I met in logic class.
Alexandria: Thanks. I thought of it all by myself.
Me: I wonder whether I benefit in some way by knowing someone who probably doesn’t have malaria in common with George Clooney.
Alexandria: See? I’m doing this for all of us. The public lesbian good.
Me: It’s like the Kevin Bacon game. Except with George Clooney. And mosquito-borne disease.
Alexandria: And hot, hot lesbian sex. Someday. If George Clooney has anything to say about it.
Me: Well, George Clooney loves the ladies. Some ladies love ladies. Some ladies who love ladies love hot, hot lesbian sex with other ladies. Therefore, George Clooney loves hot, hot lesbian sex.
Alexandria: Ooh, transitive properties. I like.
Me: This must explain why I’m attracted to George Clooney. Because he’s so great as lesbian sex.
Alexandria: Are you really? I’m fascinated by your taste in celebrities. It’s like you’re a gay, middle-aged man from Peoria. Scratch that. It’s like you’re a bi-curious housewife from Peoria. Who knows a gay man who introduced her to his love of Elton John. And, see, secretly she thinks the gay man (who’s the town’s only male nurse, by the way) is fabulous because he’s out and gay, and she can only entertain her fantasies so her love has transferred onto Elton John. I am going to write a sitcom about your sexual attraction. I hope that’s not weird.
Me: Is this about my lust for beloved Disney icon Mary Poppins? Look, I own that. I am not ashamed. And OK, yes, I bought Us magazine waiting in line at the grocery store yesterday because there was a big photo of Elton John, his husband and their new baby on the cover. Sure, babies scare me, and I totally don’t want one of my own because gross, but after gently stalking Elton John for so many years I would not have hesitated to be his surrogate. Like Dionne Warwick and friends sing: that’s what 30-something, fertile, pure-blooded Jewish redheaded fans with birthing hips are for.
Alexandria: Pretty sure that’s not at all how the song goes. But did you hear that magazine was censored in Arkansas? Have you seen this?
Me: If I were a bi-curious housewife in Arkansas who has misguidedly focused my secret lesbian longings on Elton John based on the recommendation of my sassy gay nurse manfriend, I’d probably have to drive across state lines to find out about the new baby he didn’t ask me to carry for him.
Alexandria: Road trip! With sassy gay friend. See, sitcom.
Me: Or maybe a feature-length film. Like “Transamerica.” Without the sex change. And the son I didn’t know I have from back when I was a dude. Never mind, actually nothing like that. Maybe “Sideways”? Napa getaway, copious amounts of wine … and Virginia Madsen and Sandra Oh could have hot, hot lesbian sex.
Alexandria: But what about the sassy gay friend?
Me: It’s like you don’t want Virginia Madsen and Sandra Oh to have hot, hot lesbian sex.
Alexandria: Maybe a movie is too ambitious. I really think television is your medium.
Me: As a precursor to the sitcom you write about my odd sexual proclivities, I’ll probably blog about this. My mostly straight married audience might appreciate this fascinating look into our psyches.
Alexandria: OMG, you’re the sassy gay friend.
Me: Whoa. Deep.