Magazine article Out

Mother Mia!

Magazine article Out

Mother Mia!

Article excerpt

Twenty-somethings across the nation are giving up their leases and boomeranging back to their parents' homes.

But I have managed to reverse this trend: My mother has moved in with me. Into the matchbox Manhattan apartment I share with my husband, Michael Leleux, the world's most patient man.

It's really the gay Academy Award, isn't it? Having your mother move in with you. I feel I've been suddenly launched into a whole new lavender lunar orbit, alongside Liberace and Norman Bates. Especially since this isn't just anybody's mother we're talking about here, but my mother, Jessica Wilson, a Southern belle of a certain age whose blond hair and boobs are big just like our home state of Texas.

Since Mother moved in, weight-loss mud wraps litter the bathroom floor, mascara and cigarette burns speckle the towels and upholstery, wigs crown every lampshade- and none of them are mine. Last month an unsuspecting housekeeper flipped the wrong light switch, and we almost had to call the fire department. Just like that, Mother's favorite head of hair went up in smoke, and we all learned a new lesson in the perils of cohabitation.

But, heightened fire risk aside, living with my mother has come as a happy surprise. Though "surprise" may be putting it too strongly. Now that I think about it, this was probably always an inevitable living arrangement.

Inevitable, because I've practically made a profession out of being a mama's boy (see my book, The Memoirs of a Beautiful Boy), but inevitable also because Mother is the kind of indomitable woman frequently in need of a sleeper sofa. Also, legal representation. Which brings me to the immediate cause of Mother's move: divorce. I'm afraid I can't say too much about Mother's divorce from her latest Mr. Wonderful- not due to discretion (of which I have none), but due to pending litigations (of which Mother has many). Let's just say it has all the ingrethents of your typical disaster scenario: blonds, booze, and California. Let's also say that San Francisco is a terrible place for a drunk. It's so hilly, with lots of very sharp curves. It would be easy for someone to, say, drive off a cliff- which someone did.

But that's a story for another time- a time after Mother's divorce settlement is finalized. …

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