Daddy Dearest

I have a problem. I know, boo hoo, right? Anyway, it’s not so much a problem as an awkward social situation, which I just realized could be acronymized as ASS, so now I have an ASS instead of a problem because it is way more fun to say ASS. Oh, P.S. apparently I am a little spazzy right now. Yes, try and recover from your shock. Anywho, this is my ASS: my last remaining friend living in this county is a single mom because her jerk husband left her after having an affair with a stupid ugly cow and the last thing I’ll say about them is that they deserve each other. Consequently, when I go out with my friend (which is like every weekend) and her daughter (which is like every other weekend since jerk-ass gets overnight custody every other weekend) this is what people see: a man, a woman, and a child. Add these three elements and hello daddy! I know what you are thinking: but you are so gay! Your gayness can be seen from space! How can people assume that you are the father and not see what you so obviously are: the gay best friend? Are they headless? Stupid? What is the deal? I certainly don’t help matters any: I dearly love the little girl so I carry her and talk to her and pay attention to her, probably even more so than many of the other “real” fathers I have seen interacting with their children. But it is so bad, even lesbians are confused. Let me explain that sentence so that it makes more sense. This one time (no, not at band camp) my friend, the baby (she was a baby then), and I had gone out shopping. As I wheeled the little tyke in her stroller, walking towards the shopping area, our group passed a couple of lesbians walking to the parking area. As we got closer, the lesbians looked at us (just as I looked at them; it’s just how gaydar works), then looked at each other. The look that passed between them said quite clearly what they were thinking, almost as if we were in a cartoon and thought bubbles appeared over their heads: “Poor thing, she doesn’t know.” After they had passed a respectable distance, I shared my insight with my friend and we both had a hearty chuckle. However, I have also seen guys who might have been interested quickly look away when they see my friend come up with the baby. And then yesterday at Home Depot, this woman called me daddy twice more even after she had been corrected. I have proposed several measures (all rejected by my friend) to clarify the nature of our relationship to the idle passerby: T-shirts, hats, or gold necklaces that say “fag” for me and “hag” for her. A t-shirt for the child that says “I love my gay fake uncle.” A tattoo on my forehead that says “homo”. For a while, I tried wearing my pride necklace, but that just fascinated the little girl and she would play with the triangles and say the colors as she held each one in her pudgy little hands (she is beastly smart; just three and she is starting to recognize some words and knows most of her colors, numbers and letters). The best remedy, of course, would be for us not to hang out so much, for me to get a boyfriend, for her to get a boyfriend, for us not to be so dependent on each other. So what are we going to do? Maybe we’ll talk about it after she and I go see The Stepford Wives next weekend.