Fall 2006: The Moral Dilemma

I'm writing this only because I hate old copy on Web sites, and the previous rant had been up since June. At this very moment I don't even have anything planned to say yet. Rather than bemoaning that fact, though, I'm actually kind of proud of it. When I started doing this site I had the kind of jobs where I frequently had time to work on my own stuff during the day, so I could write and post lots of assorted monthly updates. But I finally don't have that kind of job anymore. (Thank you, God.) And now during the time I'm not working, I've just found more interesting things to do in the real world. So, despite the fact that Web stuff is what I do for a living, I just can't update Dorritville like I used to be able to.

Plus, I've never really wanted to be one of those people who spends way too much time online, and feels the need to document every aspect of my life, from what I had for lunch to everything I'm doing on the weekend. If that wasn't bad enough, to then have that innocuous information on a bulletin board, interspersed between the constant flirting and puerile jokes and comments about sex, "boobs" and pu—well, you get it. If you're over 30 (and even that's pushing it), unless you're an invalid or some other kind of shut in or special needs case, there's simply no excuse. EVER. (If you're over 40, don't even get me started...)

As far as "chatting" online, especially in the middle of the day—you know, when most of us are actually working? If you're not a gay man trolling for anonymous sex (the reason chat was invented), you should be ashamed of yourself. And it's not even "chatting," it's typing. Live your life without an audience, do some constructive work on workdays, and make decisions without discussing everything with "The Borg" first, you mooks.

So what to write about? It's too early to haul out my yearly "I hate Thanksgiving" tirade.

My master plan for relocating to Red Hook is still too nebulous to discuss in any coherent public way. You'll probably all just get a change of address notice next year and say "Jeez, you got somebody to buy that piece of crap house for how much? Did you lazy cows at least fix the roof and the big gaping holes in the ceilings?"

Atlantic Yards and Frank "I've been doing the same one ugly building over and over again for 40+ years" Gehry, can kiss my ass. I have no desire to see the downtown Brooklyn I love turned into a nightmare of greed, traffic, and bad architecture. Next year: the Hook and a bitchin' Vespa (which I will ride without a helmet since I don't want to mess up my hair) from Scooter Bottega.

There's my job, which I love and that's totally kicking my ass (but in a good way) and keeping me hugely busy. I don't mind, because I know that what I do everyday is actually helping to make the world a better place, especially for all "the gays." (Really, me, the queen of the Philistines making a difference; who'd have thunk it?) And I'm getting paid for it and get to do fun things like make this banner:

I've already devoted way too much space, along with time, emotion, tears, blah blah blah, to the flaming trainwreck I used to call a relationship . It's gone and now apparently so is my ability to trust just about anyone, especially girls. SUPER! (This time she already had her new girlfriend on the line while she was allegedly trying to work things out with me and told me she was NOT dating.) Wait a minute, didn't I say I wasn't going to talk about this? Crap, I hate it when I do that. I'm not going to mention her anymore—son of a bitch, I did it again!

I could tell you about how I lost the chance to compete in a Jitterbug competition when I was ten, because my partner, Vicki Haberbosch, got into an accident and lost one of her arms. But as much as I love that story, it's not mine; it's Stephen's.

I think instead I'll talk about how I currently have a moral dilemma. I can hear some of you repeating Eddy's line from "Ab Fab," and saying "But Pats, you have no morals." And both of you can kiss my fat white ass in Macy's window.

My favorite uncle, who coincidentally also lives here in NYC, is turning 80 this November and has decided to throw himself a big fancy party. Not only that, he's throwing it with one of his childhood friends who is also turning 80, Miss Betsy Palmer, former star of stage and screen. (And the original "Friday the 13," and "To Tell the Truth" and other fab quiz shows.)

But wait—there's more. As if Miss Betsy Palmer weren't enough, the party is going to be held at the ultra high-toned Lotos Club. Its name comes from a Tennyson poem, it's a former Vanderbilt mansion and an invitation-only private club, and Eisenhower even gave a speech there in 1962. Enough said? (I know, you're asking, "And they invited you?" That was my reaction too.)

From there the affair takes a slightly almost surreal turn. My uncle is the former head staff scenic designer for the Metropolitan Opera and started out in the theatre, and many of the guests will be theatre types. But then he decided to make it a full-on "blast from the past" type thing, and he also invited childhood friends and family. So the guest list will be a combination of artsy, liberal types who live in New York City, and NOT-artsy white republicans from Indiana (no matter where they live now), including my mother. Talk about oil and water—it's going to be like the war between the states.

I have another not-so-favorite uncle who's coming to the party. He's an ultra-catholic former republican Indiana state senator, who also happens to be a friend of Dan Quayle and plays golf with him sometimes. We're talking RABID conservative republican. Seriously, when he and my mother get together they still refer to JFK as "John Fraud Kennedy," and the poor man got shot to death over 40 years ago. So while this uncle is a nice enough man in general, I hate everything he stands for and believes in. And you know how I like shaking up that type.

What I would like to say to him is: "Why yes, Uncle Jerry, not only am I a democrat who thinks Dick Cheney is the devil and the catholic church is one of the the most evil organizations on earth, but I'm also a BIG FAT LESBIAN! But he'll either faint, have yet another heart attack (triple bypass), and/or tell my mother, and I stand a good chance of getting disinherited. And there's the moral dilemma: do I do something I've been waiting years to do, even if that means risking my "retirement fund?"

My mother wouldn't be mad because I said I was a big faz Lez; she knows that. Since we're white people, we don't speak of it (don't ask, don't tell), but trust me—she knows. She would be mad because I had caused a scene at a formal, fancy party. Again, since we're white people and we do not raise our voices or cause scenes in public. It's tantamount to drowning kittens in the river.

Here are the answers to the obvious questions: No, they will not know I'm a big lez the minute I walk in, and PS: har dee har har. I always get very femmed up for fancy affairs and this will be no different. I even already know where to go to buy my pearl gray gloves.

My date for the evening is a man not a woman. We love going out as a couple and tripping people out, and I promised Stephen he could meet Miss Betsy Palmer. Plus he can dance and is quite the pretty picture when he's all dressed up. (But not prettier than me, which is one of my main escort requirements.) If I had one real girlfriend, yes, of course I would take her. But I don't, and I don't see the point of taking just "any" girl so I'm there with another female. (Not that I'd find any takers after actually putting that in print...) Besides, the people who I'm trying to mess with would probably just say, "Oh look, isn't it nice Dorrit found another pathetic manless spinster to pal around with in the big city?"

So, do I take the war between the states theme to the extreme and turn said swanky party into my own personal burning of Atlanta? Or do I just keep my big mouth shut and mingle, drink and eat h'ors d'oeuvres, and amuse myself by looking sad when I tell people, "No, we don't have any children; unfortunately, my husband Stephen has an undescended testicle." (His variation is: "No, we don't have any children; unfortunately my wife, Dorrit, is barren.")

At this particular moment in time, I can't say what I'll end up doing. I suppose it depends on how much I've had to drink that night. And how much time I've had to spend with my mother before the party. (For all I know matricide will end up being the actual moral dilemma.) But the bottom line is, I do really like my Uncle David, and it is his birthday party. I'm sure he wants it to be memorable, but not in the way I'm thinking of making it memorable.

I guess this is just another one of the disadvantages to being a grownup; realizing that the world does not revolve around you, and that the needs of the people you care about often outweigh your own; then making sure that your actions reflect that realization. Oh well, maybe Stephen and I will be able to dance to "Copacabana" again; that'll be fun too.