The Pot and the Kettle

“THAT IS SO GAY!”

I hate that statement. My students use it constantly. They usually respond that it doesn’t mean anything, although whenever they use it, they’re referring to the stupidity of a person or a situation. So to them, gays are stupid? I usually shut them up by saying,

“Do I go around saying, That’s so Mexican?”

Nevertheless, I find I use the above statement frequently with my boyfriend. But I mean it in its truest sense. So I think I’m being the most offensive here.  I use it when:

1. He seriously discusses the career of Jennifer Lopez.

2. He fills up the DVR with every type of reality show that features wives, models and other assorted trampy-looking skeletons.

3. He reads all of those books about teenage vampires.

Those are tame compared to the thing that is almost too embarrassing to speak its name: beauty pageants. He loves them. He lives for them. He debates with his other gay Latin American friends about them. They get together and watch them, much like an Oscar party or a Super Bowl party, but with a lot less testosterone. Months before the pageant, he goes on the internet and checks out pictures. He finds Miss Puerto Rico and figures out what she must do stylistically and surgically to compete with the bane of all international beauty pageants: Venezuela. It’s obvious that country has been breeding or cloning contestants for years. I guess any country that supports Hugo Chavez has to have something else to brag about. Puerto Rico isn’t much better. When the last Miss Puerto Rico won a Miss Universe, a legal holiday was declared on the island. For awhile, I thought they were going to rename the airport after her.

Ricardo -- his Puerto Rican friend who wears lip gloss and a girdle -- called today. Miss Universe will be in the Bahamas this year. They are now considering going. Taking days off, flying across the country to sit in the same room with Donald Trump and Perez Hilton and scream at the top of their lungs.

Instead of blurting out,

“You are such a faggot!”

I take a deep breath and take stock.

What’s the difference between him watching a beauty pageant and me and my penchant for any PBS Jane Austen tale? It’s all the same: women acting silly in fancy dresses.

So I can laugh at him watching Project Runway, but I sit glued to any version of Coco Chanel’s life. What’s the difference?

I get irritated with his fascination with American Idol, yet I watch Glee religiously. Do I need to say anything more?

Until I join a rugby team and start changing my own tires, I think I need to watch what I say in my own fabulous glass house.