Every now and then, kittens, I do something so ultra gay that the mercury gets blown right through the top of the gay-o-meter. Last week was one of those times.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, cherubs, but I have painted my office walls to match my cat. I know, I know, even Thom Felicia is going, “girlfriend, that is really GAY!” I had grown tired of the muted sage green, and one day my cat Nutmeg jumped onto a newspaper I was reading … and voila! The rest, as they say, is acrylic base, satin finish history.
Now for those of you familiar with my cat, you know it is a calico — a cat with blotches of tans, ochre and black. It’s really kind of pretty in a mutant, “my mother was an indiscriminate slut unconcerned with pedigreed breeding” sort of way (oh speaking of irresponsible sluts, don’t even get me started about Nadya Suleman and her litter of octuplets? OMG!).
But anyway, my big problem was how do I match the paint color to Nutmeg’s fur? My initial thought was one of those knee-jerk, not-necessarily-thinking-of-the-consequences kind of thoughts, where I would just take Nutmeg to the paint counter at Lowe’s, and they would scan her with one of those handheld things that looks like a cop’s radar gun. As I went for my car keys and a cat carrier, my better angels finally woke up and whispered, “Ruby, do you think the poor straight paint counter guy really needs your pussy shoved in his face?”
Wait, that didn’t come out right … but you know what I mean. So I came up with a Plan B which involved shuttling back and forth with paint swatches and small cans of paint.
I gravitated towards the orange-brown colors. Oh my God, pumpkins, their names were just so evocative, butch and strangely southwestern. There was “Bearclaw,” “Laredo,” “Canyon Sun” and a pandering shout out to all of the Mexican immigrants painting ugly stucco McMansions across Southern Utah called “La Fonda Sombrero.” Then there were more delicate lighter shades that sounded super femme like “Brioche,” “Clove Bud” and “Tomato Bisque.”
I’m convinced that last color was named by a straight man because a) It was orange, not even remotely red and b) Because any gay guy would have automatically called it “Pumpkin Puree,” or “Martha’s Tuscan Soup.” And Darlings, that’s why the heteros fear us. We have panache and we are not colorblind!
The one color that I really liked was called “Longhorn,” so I got a sample size can of paint and slapped it on the wall. It looked great in the store, but under fluorescent light it turned a weird peach-terracotta color. And not in a good way like those gorgeous terracotta pots at Cactus and Tropicals. No, this was more like the “plastic flower pots from the dollar store that come with the cheesy silk plants that you put on the graves of relatives that you never really liked every Memorial Day” kind of terracotta color. Um, NOT GOOD!
So it was back to Lowe’s where I settled on two semi-finalists: A dark tan color called “Cattle Drive” (wouldn’t that be the greatest name for a leather bar?) and a lighter version called “Warm Cardamom.” It’s a nice color, but really hard to describe. Imagine a beige, orange, tan kind of color somewhere between Muenster Cheese and John Boehner’s face and you’ve got it. Seriously, what is up with that guy? Does the GOP have pigment envy now that Obama is in office, or what? I swear, Boehner looks like George Hamilton wearing Sam Donaldson’s hair helmet.
But I digress.
The end result of my painting makeover is the office is now super cheerful and warm. The only drawback is that now my cat Nutmeg has this camouflaged cloak of invisibility, and she scares the living bejeezus out of me every time she jumps off the bookshelves.
Petals, I have to wonder: Exactly why did we riot at Stonewall if I still have pussies flying at me forty years later? Have we made any progress at all?
It’s something to think about, babies. Ciao!