The Real Housewives of Orange County are the original "wives". The were the first to WOW us. They were the trend setters. They set the trend for other real housewives shows. Everyone secretly wants what they have. Everyone secretly wants a big house where one loses their children. Everyone secretly wants a nanny to keep their children out of their hair until they are sent off to boarding school. Everyone secretly wants an expensive dye job. Everyone secretly wants the expensive plastic surgeon. Everyone secretly wants that bikini body. Everyone secretly wants the husband that is always working so one can always be shopping. Everyone secretly wants the designer closet with the clothes and those SHOES.
I do. I want the house. I want the absent husband and the designer children. I want the chauffeur. I want the cute little convertable. I want the body in that bikini. I want the clothes and oh, those shoes. But most of all, I want the "pocket gay"!
The "pocket gay" is the newest trend, and all the Real Housewives of Orange County have one. The "pocket gay" does your hair and make-up. The "pocket gay" picks out the best wardrobe, and helps one squeeze into it and position one's fake boobs properly. The "pocket gay" makes sure one doesn't eat. The "pocket gay" designs one's personal dress or jewelry line and doesn't take the credit. And, oh, how the "pocket gay" can shop! And all the time one's "pocket gay" is tending to one, he is expounding on her greatness and beauty.
I dreamed I had a "pocket gay"( of course, I was walking in my dream). We went shopping. My gay picked out the most fabulous clothes and they were not easy clothes. He helped me squeeze my muffin top (okay, the whole muffin) into that gold lame, sequined, haltered, mini dress. As my always-pointing-to-my-toes-boobs oozed out of that lumpy dress like grease oozing out of a bacon cheese burger, my "pocket gay" told me I was the most beautiful overweight, crippled kid he had ever seen. Then we went to lunch because that is what we do. My "pocket gay" watched me eat because "pocket gays" don't eat they only drink and they never get drunk. Through the entire lunch as he dabbed the wine dribble from my chin, he continually told the waiters and the restaurant patrons about my ever-increasing beauty. That night we went to a masquerade ball. I went as the late-in-life Queen Guinevere, and my "pocket gay" was Sir Lancelot and my husband (King Arthur) wasn't their because someone has to work to pay for the "pocket gay". All the while we danced as I stomped on his well-groomed, manicured feet, he whispered in my ear that I was more beautiful than that Cleopatra, Juliet, Isolde, Pocahontas and Scarlett O'Hara. Throughout the night my "pocket gay" refilled my wine glass, reapplied my make-up, re-ringlet-curled my hair, readjusted my sagging breasts, and recharged my ego. Later that night when he tucked me in with my satin sheets and didn't pressure me for sex, my "pocket gay" looked into my blood shot eyes and whispered those three special words, "Tomorrow, shoe shopping."
And then I woke up. There was no "pocket gay" to bring me my tomato juice. There shall be no shoe shopping, or doing lunch, or giggling, or ego inflating because the care and feeding of a "pocket gay" is more than my teacher's salary can handle. I can't afford those Gucci cuffed bermuda shorts with the diamond studded belt or the oversized Rolex watch with the matching manbag. But tonight when I slap on my torn sleepshirt and slip into my 50 thread count sheets, my "pocket gay" may return. A girl (I know, I know, old lady) can dream . . . . . . . . . .
I am a pocket puppy isn't that enough?
The Flip Side
I don't have pockets!