First of all, please forgive me for not getting this
Christmas letter to you sooner. Ever since Harold and I were
named parents of the year by the Rising Swamp chapter
of PFLAG, I don’t know where the time goes,
what with our organizational commitments, the kids,
the grandkids, their pets, and our outpatient procedures.
Most of January was spent trying to figure out the new
Medicare, but you don’t want to hear about
that. On to the good stuff—where to start?
Alvin has moved
back into his old room, the one with all the pastel
Miami Vice posters, only now he’s sharing
it with his partner, Jesus (the j is silent). The
thong boutique they were managing on South Beach had a
very bad season, plus all their customers had moved up to
Fort Lauderdale (where the boys are—remember that
movie?), and they couldn’t afford to relocate.
So they’re here, and we have a garage full of
thongs. Write with your sizes! They also brought the
shi-poo, the morkie, and a cat from Abyssinia that
looks as thin as those children on the late-night TV
commercials, but maybe that’s just how they grow
things over there.
They divide their
time between us and Muffin, who is of course still with
her partner, Carla, and their children, Mei Lai and Song My.
Carla has finally bonded with the little one. She
takes her out on her Harley, and you can hear that
precious doll screaming with delight from blocks away.
Speaking of dolls, Mei Lai had a fund-raising lemonade stand
on our lawn for the hospital in New Orleans that cares
for dolls injured in Katrina. I never could get Muffin
interested in dolls, so this is a new experience for
Now that Alvin
and Jesus are with us, we have been given the
responsibility of hosting the weekly Desperate
Housewives viewing party, so I’m back to
making pot brownies, just like the old days before we
had kids. Harold and I enjoy them more than ever. It turns
out one of those Desperate Housewives is a
transgender person and they’ve made a
documentary about her. Him. Her. Never mind. We all went and
it was very good, but the grandkids were a bit
puzzled, so we explained it. Not for nothing are we
PFLAG parents of the year!
which, it looks like we may finally have a gay pride parade
here in Rising Swamp. It is certainly time. I’m sure
you remember last year’s letter wherein I
described the ugly scene that broke out when some of
the local lesbians marched in the Armed Forces Day parade as
the Mariska Hargitay Appreciation Society. Enough
addition to running the body shop with Carla, has become
quite a proficient slash-fiction writer. She has
written several new what she calls Harriet Potter
stories on her Web site (www.buddingrose.com) and they
have attracted attention from all around the world, but
fortunately not from that woman who writes Harry
Potter or, even better, her lawyers. Muffin says slash
fiction is the art form of the new millennium, and
I’m just glad she’s getting in on the
OK, I have to
close now. Pat Robertson just came on the TV, and Alvin has
trained his dog to pee at the screen. Next year send Handi
Wipes for Christmas!
solidarity, Roz (Remember—we met on the cruise?)