It all started when the old lady in the produce section said to E, "aren't you so adorable" and then leaned over to me and said, "you are going to be fighting off the girls with a broomstick."
Was that a reference to me being a witch?
Then it happened again in front of the meat counter. We were approached by a 60-ish woman sporting the exact same bouffant hairstyle she wore to her senior prom in 1959. She went on and on about E's eyes, blah, blah, blah. She was telling him she loved him and was kissing his forehead. I know I should have been concerned but I figured that between the e coli and salmonella on the surface of the cart handle that he was sucking on and the afternoon at the rotavirus infested pediatrician's office, what the hell could this woman give him? And then the conversation went haywire...
Bouffant: Look at how long your fingers are...maybe you'll be a piano player. Wouldn't that be nice? You could be just like that Liberace.
She hesitated long enough for me to envision E, fastforwarded 50 years, wearing blue eyeshadow, pink lipstick and a full length fur coat.
Bouffant: But you don't have to be a faggot like him. You can just be a good piano player.
I looked across the meat counter in time to see the guy behind it double over and hide behind the counter in order to block anyone from seeing the hysteria that descended upon him.
K: OK, we need to keep shopping. It was lovely talking to you.
Sometimes it is just nicer to lie.
When I relayed this story to my husband, he took a twist that really could, once again, only come from a man.
D: I don't want him to be gay, but if he is, I sure hope he has better taste than Liberace.
Lord, help me.