Oh dear. My luscious toes are poking out of the bubbles, and my skin is wrinkled and pink. After an hour of slow-baste in my Jacuzzi, I want to share the holiday memories enjoyed with you gays the last two weeks.
The smell of fresh pine makes my pocketbook shiver. It?s a reminder to send generous checks to my two sons and the Human Rights Campaign Federal Club of Kansas City. I must also cough up a handful to attend a performance of Handel?s Messiah, habitually performed by the Symphony this time of year (and sometimes at Easter). Dead people?s music makes me feel sacred.
Sitting in a church sanctuary, sweating under Russian sable, is God?s special plan for me. Yes, I?d rather be at home, clad in ancient flannel with a bucket of creamy gelato chilling my inner thighs, but Handel?s Messiah is a two-hour operatic retelling of Christ?s life. It has to be pleasurable, for why would people torture themselves sitting through it since 1742? Once, when wiping a stream of perspiration from my forehead, I started counting the minorities performing (and in the audience). I multiplied and divided and came up with a percentage: 0.00087%.
That?s why I love the suburbs.
Oh, little sinners, holiday parties are so much fun with the gays! When gay boys adventure into their 30s, they still wear those tight little sweaters designed for men 10 years younger. I love watching tummies jiggling from Halloween candy and Thanksgiving pie, and after a few glasses of Shiraz, I sat down to watch the gay holiday promenade. I was very happy when a nice short-haired woman plopped down beside me, and we watched the parade together. Miss Karen is a no-nonsense sister with a heart of gold (as well as gold steel-toed boots). Did I tell you she was a gay woman? Please call me a lesbian, she said. I did, and we ended the party with a hug and air-kisses.
Before I go any further, I must tell you that I attended the AIDS Service Foundation?s city-wide community luncheon at the Kauffman Foundation Conference Center. That cute little TV anchor Phil Witt seduced me with his baritone, and I was introduced to several sweet ministers from the African American community. I thought AIDS was a white-boy gay disease, and was shocked when I discovered that the majority of new infections are hitting the black and Hispanic straight communities ? mainly women. I opened my heart and my pocketbook to this new cause. But poor AIDS sufferers don?t wine and dine me like my HRC Federal Club friends. Perhaps there?s room in my checking account for both.
Miss Karen the Lesbian and I made a date for Friday night?s World AIDS Day reception at the Hotel Phillips. I picked her up from her downtown condo, and that girl looked gorgeous, walking up to my Hummer in a slinky, white pantsuit. I declare, deep down, I understand why a woman would be attracted to another woman. Mind you, the blood of Jesus would never allow me to follow that pathway, but I can understand the temptation.

Hunky Phil Witt was at the hotel (again!) and it breaks my heart to think that AIDS can be totally prevented, but is ignored by many. I saw a lot of old men at this event who were escorting their sons, and a few even brought along their grandsons. What a wonderful place Kansas City is to raise a family!
The Heartland Men?s Chorus had a concert last weekend, and I had the time of my life. The makeup, dresses and sparkles brought back memories of Miss Oklahoma 1984 (I was first runner-up). We?ll go into that tragedy another time, but those cute boys put on a show! The majority of the audience was heterosexuals, mainly because the entire gay-boy population of Kansas City was on stage. God forbid that the Folly Theater would ever be destroyed during one of these concerts ? the city?s cultural center would come to a standstill. The sad menorah song. My favorite. You boys, keep it up.
To end this week?s column, I must tell you that I was gay-
slandered in the dairy aisle of the local market. Tamera T., who lives two mansions down from me, passed by with her cart (filled with South Beach Diet frozen dinners, no less). She looked at me with icy eyes and murmured, ?Love the sinner, hate the sin. Francine, you?re on thin ice in Loch Lloyd.? She flipped her frosted locks and sped away.
I stood there, stunned. I know that God doesn?t approve of gays. And lesbians. But does God hate me ? because I love my gays? It?s so confusing. Upsetting. I think I?ll stay in my bubble bath for a few moments longer.