A question of non-gayness

TV Hagenah

My wife has decided I’m definitely not gay.

This insight did not come from the risque magazines that she found around the house when we were first married (I tried to tell her they were left by a previous tenant in the apartment, but she didn’t buy that), it wasn’t because of the girls that continued to call the house after we were married (I tried to tell her they were my sister – but she responded that my sister calls me “toad face”, not “snuggle boots”, “cutey hips” or “knobby knees” as several of the callers did. I must admit this was a valid observation). It wasn’t even because of my lifetime membership to Hooters (which in my defense was a gift – granted, it would be a better defense if it were not a gift from the girls who work at Hooters).

Nope, my wife has decided I am not gay after watching a season of ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.’

For those of you who have not seen this program, it is about five gay gentlemen who each week descend upon a straight male (apparently volunteered by his girlfriend, co-workers [do you realize that incorrectly hyphenated, “co-workers” is “cow-orkers” which while not a word {or have anything to do with this column} is quite fascinating], or even wife and children).

After this descent, in one short day the five gay guys fix up his living space, take him shopping for clothes, get him groomed, teach him to cook and groom himself and finally cattily observe him while he puts all of their tutelage to work that very evening.

Every time my wife gets me to watch the program, (it’s my fault too, I keep falling for, “Wow, who knew that girl could fit into that swimsuit?” and by the time I realize that there are no girls in swimsuits on the program, she’s got her arm around mine in that fashion only wives and professional wrestlers seem to know) and she keeps saying, “See that , you’d never do that, you would never put chintz curtains on the bathroom windows.”

Heck, I didn’t even put glass in the bathroom windows until I invited her over to my apartment the first time.

All through the hour program, she makes observations like that. She’ll say something like, “Who knew that violet satin and puce velour would go together so well?” and I would say, “Who knew violet satin and puce velour existed?” or she would ask, “Why can’t you select wines like they do?” and I would respond, “Why can’t they peel beer labels off Coors bottles like I can when I’m drunk?” and demonstrate.

The worst part always comes when they help the poor slob select clothes. Here he comes into the store perfectly comfortable in a pair of old ratty jeans with a couple of holes in them (well, maybe a few more than a couple – that happens when working on a car battery in the living room) two different color socks and a pair of sneakers that seem to date from a different century. Of course, he is wearing a Chicago Bears sweatshirt that was last laundered in 1967.
So they take this completely normally dressed guy and put him in fru-fru clothes like clean shirts and pants and socks that match (how gay can you get?).

Meanwhile, the guy back at the house has completely cleaned and refurbished the house. At this point my wife usually says something to the affect of, “If they did that here they would have to bring in a whole new house.”
At least, that’s what I think she says because I think my snoring has drowned her out. However, I generally do hear her right after she hits me across the head and shouts. “You’re certainly not gay!”

I used to think that was a compliment.